


and if the music ain't good, well, that's just too bad (we're gonna sing along no matter what)

by sternenrotz



Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - Sex Shop, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Het and Slash, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Microaggressions, Nonbinary Character, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, POV Character of Color, Police Brutality, Politics, Queer Culture, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Vampires, neurodivergent character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-01-21 23:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 124,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12467992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: It all begins with a craving for copper pennies.Or: a romantic black comedy with vampires.





	1. pennies

**Author's Note:**

> Titled after “Take Your Mama” by Scissor Sisters.
> 
> First of all I would like to establish that the treatment of Vampires in this universe is not intended as social commentary on any real-life marginalised groups -- Vampires simply exist as Vampires. They just so happen to occupy a second-class-citizen position in society, which may overlap with other marginalisations. I am very aware that this story wouldn’t have worked with someone other than Faris as the protagonist; However, I am not a person of colour, and I apologise in advance for any insensitivities.
> 
> While Faris’ diagnoses in this story have been taken over from real life, the extent to which they affect his mental health is fictional. Some of his symptoms are based on statements he has given in interviews, and another part is drawn from my own experiences with ADHD. At the same time, I don’t have OCD, so Faris’ experiences with this disorder were pulled from Wikipedia or first-hand accounts.
> 
> On a similar note, Josh is a trans man here, and his medical transition progress is outlined within the actual story. While his trans status is obviously fictional, his experiences are again drawn from my own. The sex scenes between him and Faris are based on how I, as a trans man, personally like to have sex, but they obviously do not represent the preferences of all trans men. I was conscious to avoid female-coded terms for Josh’s anatomy, but I do use the word “cunt” several times over; however, this word is not mentioned in relation to any cisgender female characters’ genitals. (Rhys also is non-binary in this story and uses they/them pronouns, but their gender isn't nearly as prominent within the plot.)
> 
> Both Faris’ and Josh’s home lives are based in fact, such as their respective circumstances growing up, but their specific experiences are completely fictional or loosely taken from my own life. While Faris was born in London in real life, his mother actually is from East Yorkshire.
> 
> I deliberately set this story in the months following the 2015 general election and their overall climate of political unrest. However, I started writing it prior to the EU referendum and the subsequent 2017 election, so the topic of impending violations of rights may seem too topical right now.
> 
> Faris and Josh both have been aged down by six years, meaning that Faris is twenty-two going on twenty-three and Josh is twenty-four going on twenty-five. Meanwhile, Rhys, Harry and Tom are all the age they were in real life at the time.
> 
> A soundtrack playlist for this fic can be found here: ([x](https://open.spotify.com/user/j26dbha4520cylz2r4hrr6uuk/playlist/2H2x3RUulmIF3vESXIgAsB))

Faris stops by at BedMates after his shift every day. He gets off the bus four stops earlier and walks five minutes up the high street, four-hundred steps or eighty times five, he knows that. The shop is located inside an old brick building, a nice house with a clean façade and a big display window with lingerie-clad technicolour mannequins, a windowed door that’s been lacquered pink, squeezed between an Indian takeaway restaurant and a Vee-run coffee shop. A buzzer sits next to the door, but Rhys keeps it unlocked after a certain time of day so Faris can simply walk in, and he thumbs over the _We Are VAMPIRE-POSITIVE_ sticker on the glass panel as he does.

The inside of the shop’s achingly bright, the same way the chime that sounds when Faris steps inside is loud and sharp and bright. It's a harsh contrast to the gloomy grey skies outside, crisp white light against shiny white floors and clean white shelves and displays filled with brightly coloured toys. Harry’s stood by the display nearest to the door, clearly wrapped up in demonstrating the subtle differences between a number of rabbit-style vibrators to an older lady customer. Faris merely nods at her before he makes his way over to the counter.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Rhys says back, the word drawn out with a singsong that's not normally found in their voice.

They extend their arms for a welcome hug and Faris accepts, just as he accepts the smacking kisses they press to each of his cheeks. Rhys is wearing a stinking sweet perfume today, a floral scent with a sickly sting. Faris wrinkles his nose at the smell before he can help it.

The bell by the door rings a second time and a younger woman walks in, an uncertainty in her step that reminds Faris of a young fawn trying to stand on its feet for the first time.

Rhys says, “Excuse me.” They push themself out from behind the counter, and they put on their retail voice to say, “Welcome to BedMates.”

Faris takes the opportunity to take the empty seat next to Josh. The two of them only nod at each other in acknowledgement in place of any fancy greetings, and Josh passes Faris a cup of tea.

“Cheers.”

The mug’s printed with the logo of some national park and a photo collage of bears, a tacky gift shop souvenir that greatly complements Josh’s own mug sitting by the register which has a collage of slightly different bears printed on it. The tea is cooled down just enough to not scald when Faris takes a tentative sip, the way he likes it with two sugars and a dash of milk in. He hums into the mug.

“You okay?” Josh asks.

Faris makes a non-committal noise and shrugs. “I guess, yeah.” He blows some of the steam off from his tea and says, “Still getting used to the whole after-the-end thing. Nick still hasn’t stopped complaining about it.”

Josh emphatically says, “Ouch.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Faris sips from his mug once again, lets the heat of it spread around his mouth for the count of five before he swallows it down to settle in his belly. He hasn’t eaten or drunk anything since the Greggs chicken sandwich he’d picked up in his lunch break, but that’s not the only reason this tea now tastes like the best thing he’s had all day.

Faris glances over at Rhys where they’re holding up the demo model of a thick life-like dildo to explain all of its particular features to shy customer girl. He leans in towards Josh’s equally cloying cloud of Lynx deodorant and says, “Mate.”

Josh quirks one brow. “Yeah?”

“Don’t tell them I said this, but…” Faris says, and he wrinkles his nose once again. He’s used to Josh smelling like the locker room from his most nightmarish high school memories, but he feels like it’s gotten _worse –_ like he’d applied an extra coating of combative pubescent schoolboy scent just before Faris came in. “Did you notice Rhys is smelling a little extra floral today? Like they’ve been marinating in that weird perfume.” And he hisses, “‘cause they _stink_.”

Josh only wrinkles his face in some cartoonish scepticism in response. “Not that I’m aware, really. They smelled normal to me.”

“Maybe it’s my nose, then.”

“Probably.”

Josh reaches out for his tea to take a sip, and Faris figures maybe he should do the same, for lack of much else to do. He counts five sips, and then another five, keeps the sweetness of it under his tongue for a bit longer. This is his favourite time of the day, probably, sharing the quiet space behind the counter with Josh and drinking tea and bantering on about nothing with Rhys and Harry before he eventually has to go back to his desolate flat. Rhys always has music playing quietly over the intercom, the girl group playlist Faris sent them over Spotify about a year ago or a selection of pop divas, depending on their mood. Today, it’s the last Beyoncé album in full, and Faris hums along to the bars of “Partition” approvingly.

“You are _so_ gay,” Josh points out.

Faris simply kicks at his shin.

He’s almost finished his cup of tea, and he contemplates whether he’ll even need to make dinner tonight with how filled up he’s feeling. At the same time, though, there’s something in the back of his mouth that’s less of a concrete taste and more of a _craving_. Faris thinks of the antibiotics he had to take that one time he had the flu really bad in his second year of uni, the metal mouth they gave him. That’s the way it tastes. He leans in closer to Josh, who’s pulled up Rhys’ Macbook to check on online orders, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and counts, and he rubs his head against Josh’s shoulder to tickle his neck with his hair.

“Oi, step it off. Customer discretion and all.”

Josh doesn't _actually_ make a move to shake Faris off, though, and so he remains just where he's draped himself to watch Josh copy every individual order from the email inbox. He's got the template for the invoices open in a separate window, so all he has to do is fill in the items, the prices, and the total, before sending it to print on the machine in the backroom office, over and over again. It's a very idiosyncratic process, coupled with the sound of Josh’s keystrokes against the clicking of the mouse. Faris swallows down the bad taste in his mouth.

“ _Anal Adventure Butt Plug Set_ ,” he reads out from the email Josh is currently copying down, completely deadpan. “Thirty quid. _Slick’n’Slippery Anal Lubricant_. Eight quid. _Silk Bondage Rope, ten feet…_ ”

Josh pinches his thigh to shut him up. “Shush. Awful boy.”

“Josh?”

Rhys is approaching the register with the hip-swivelling gait they have, a small stack of toy boxes in their arms. Shy customer girl trails behind them. At the sound of their voice, Josh immediately straightens his back, as if that would help him with looking like a professional employee.

“This is Lola, can you ring her up real quick?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Josh adjusts the name tag pinned to his chest. He puts on a sharp-fanged smile and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” shy customer girl says back, with that same hesitation in her voice.

Something in her face changes as soon as her eyes meet Josh's, though, a gentle, acknowledging warm. Faris knows that look, he's seen Josh exchange it with plenty of people before, the _trans_ look. Josh rings up the dildo and lube and two different butt plugs that shy customer girl – Lola – passes over to him, and he gives her another fanged smile.

“That'll be forty-four quid, please.”

“Here you go.”

Lola passes over two folded-up twenties and a fiver. A smile emerges onto her face now, if only a tiny one.

“Thank you.” Josh drops a single pound coin back into her hand. “Here's your change back.”

“Cheers.”

“Would you like a bag?”

“No, thanks. I've brought my own.”

“All right. Have a good day,” Josh says, then. “And have fun.”

It's always kind of strange to watch him work and interact with customers, considering Faris knows fully well that Josh spends most of his shifts at BedMates browsing Grindr and making gross assumptions about customers' sex lives when he's packaging orders in the back room. Not to mention when he decided to let all the demo vibrators race across the showroom floor during a particularly slow work day.

Rhys comes to join the two of them once again, after they've said goodbye to Lola themself, hips swinging like a pendulum. They're wearing those high-waisted trousers that almost give them the appearance of an hourglass. Maybe that's the reason their walk seems so hypnotic today, even if Faris is almost certain that's not the _only_ reason. They take the third chair behind the counter, folding their legs tight over each other, and they say, drawing the word out over several notes, “So.”

“Did you know her?” Josh asks.

“We met when I did a talk on sexual health and mental health at her college last month,” Rhys expositions, folding their clear-varnished fingernails over each other. “She came up to talk to me privately after, to tell me she's been using BedMates online orders to get her breast forms and bras, all her things like that, and I guess to thank us for having those things in stock and readily available, so I gave her some addresses and names and stuff, and I told her she could stop by in person, like, if she ever wanted to, so.”

That seems to be a satisfactory answer for Josh, who nods in accordance.

Rhys says, once again, “So,” stretching the O sound as they do. “How'd you guys like the Sleepover on Saturday night?”

“Yeah,” Faris simply says in accordance. “Yeah, I liked it.”

He's still not really sure how to answer that question whenever Rhys asks.

“I loved it,” Josh says. “I think I had like eight different dicks in my mouth, that's my personal record so far.” He laughs, that disturbingly high-pitched giggle he's got, and he says, “I didn't really count them.”

“Congratulations,” Rhys quips, and they reach for their bottle of water from the counter.

“I never know what you want us to say when you ask that,” Faris honestly adds. “But I only sucked one guy's dick that night.”

“You know I love getting constructive criticism,” Rhys says, and they flash a big crinkly-eyed toothy smile. “Did you have fun, though?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Well, he did get held down and fucked hard by that same guy, but unlike Josh, he doesn't like to brag about what he did at the most recent play party. Faris asks, “How was your night with your Grindr boy?”

Rhys makes a long, resounding _oh_ sound. For the last two months or so, they'd been chatting on and off with the same guy, a baby-faced art student who, Faris is positive, is the exact type of guy the word _twinky_ was invented to describe. When he says _chatting_ he almost entirely means that Rhys was _sexting_ that boy, but until the other night they'd never been able to make time to meet him in real life.

Next thing, they say, “Oh, wow. It was.” Their smile is so big at that point, Faris can see it straining in the apples of their cheeks, even when they say, “It was very nice, actually. He stuck around 'til the end of the night, so he could properly talk to me, and we chatted for a bit, and I took him to this Vee café down the road from the rental flat.”

“Vampires in Chelsea,” Josh says. Faris isn't sure if it's meant to be a derision or a simple question.

“Yeah, it was a bit posh,” Rhys says. “I think they were, like, a long family tradition business, so.”

“Vampire money,” Josh comments, and now the sneer in his voice is clear.

Time to change the topic before Josh says some haemophobic bullshit again. Faris deadpans, “And then you took him home and you two shagged like bunnies.”

“No, no.” Rhys lets out a salve of tiny giggles. “It's more like, I took him home, and we made sweet, gentle love all night long.” They try their best to sound completely sincere when they say that, but their face betrays them and more giggles slip in at the end. What's more, their hands that had been gesturing absent-mindedly form something that's extremely similar to the universal gesture for _fucking_.

“Sure you did,” Faris says.

“We saved the shagging like bunnies for the morning after.”

“I heard all of it.” Josh wrinkles his nose again. “Rhys finally found a guy who's as loud as they are.”

“But you like him.”

“Yeah, he's nice.” Josh turns to Faris and says, “I actually sat on his face for a little bit last night, I don't know if you saw him? Emo twink, blue eyes?”

Faris wrinkles his brow. “No, don't think I did.” He's still got that taste in the back of his mouth, the copper penny metal taste, too persistent that he could completely ignore it.

Harry comes over with her middle-aged lady customer, then, and if either Rhys or Josh had intended to reply to that, they instantly swallow their words down in the name of professionalism. She rings up two matching rabbit vibrators, seventy pounds total. Josh only raises an immaculately-groomed eyebrow.

The till pops open when the woman pays up in cash, and now Faris can _smell_ the taste, too, the metal of the coins heavy with the layer of skin and sweat and funk they're coated in. He can hear Harry’s voice as she asks the woman whether she'd like a bag, can see her, too, when she grabs a pink BedMates branded plastic bag from underneath the counter. Compared to the copper rank that's completely engulfed his nose it’s distant, though, like a veil of organza and white noise that's been wrapped around his head.

“That's another five pence for the bag, please,” Harry says through the static, and she thanks the woman when she hands a couple of copper coins over.

Before Faris can really process it, he muffles out a, “Scuse me, please,” and… he's taken a two pence piece from Harry’s fingers to pop it into his mouth.

“Here you go,” Harry says when she places the rabbits in the bag to hand it across the counter to the customer.

Faris deeply, deeply thanks this random middle-aged vibrator woman for the fact that no one's paying him any attention. He swallows around nothing, five times, feels the metal heavy on his tongue, but the taste seems duller now, at least.

“Enjoy yourself.” Harry puts on her best customer smile. Before the woman's even exited the door, she's already let herself slump down into the last vacant seat behind the counter.

“Why would anyone buy two of the same vibrator?” Josh asks.

“I didn't think that's a question I should ask,” Harry simply says, and she shrugs. “Maybe so she's got a backup one in case the first one dies.”

“Maybe.” Josh says, “Or maybe she shoots amateur porn in her house, or she's planning the world's saddest hen do. For a bride who's got no friends.”

Harry pulls a truly grotesque grimace of disgust for a split second before she says, “Anyway. Is there anything I missed?”

“Nothing of substance,” Faris truthfully says. He swallows, not on purpose, but like that, the penny's down his throat. He barely even gags.

“I've never been to a hen do,” Josh says to himself. “I just assumed that's how they work, there’s male strippers and penis-themed party favours and everyone gets a goody bag of sex toys.” Nobody seems to acknowledge the statement.

Rhys says, “Gay stuff.”

Faris says, “Josh's been bragging that he can fit eight dicks in his mouth at once.”

Harry comments, “Gross.”

None of them bring up the fact that Faris ate a penny at any point.

–

For the next week or so, Faris doesn't think about it.

Well, he googles his symptoms, twice, _metal mouth sensitive nose_ , but all that search points him towards is that he's either pregnant or a haemovore. Which he's not.

He doesn't google _eating small objects_ , because he already knows the diagnosis that points towards, and it's not Pica either, or any sort of compulsion, for that matter. Faris has himself in check. After years of cognitive behaviour therapy and exposure therapy, he keeps the counting to a minimum. He's got coping mechanisms for every last intrusive thought drilled into him, and he channels the repetitive behaviour into his drawings. At this point, he only has to see his shrink once every six month. For the anxious paranoia and the voices, he's got pills, Prozac and Seroquel every day, and Clonazepam, benzos, for when it gets really bad.

He's got himself in check, and, he tells himself, it was merely a lapse of judgement, an isolated incident. Temporary insanity, if he wants to get into the pop-psych jargon. Faris absolutely, positively, has got himself in check.

Well, maybe he opens the till at work once or twice every day and pops one or two pence into his mouth to feel that temporary relief from his metal mouth. He only sucks on them for a few hours and then puts them back where they belong. Although a few times, it’s happened, he swallowed one down, but his superior will never notice a difference of a few pennies in the profit, and even if he does, he'll never suspect Faris. He's got a firm suspicion that Clarissa who works part-time is taking from the register, yes, and that Faris has been stealing fountain pens and notebooks from the stock, that too. Faris can confirm that at least one of those is true, but there's no _proof_. The point is, his manager would never suspect _Faris_ for any spare change that's mysteriously gone missing.

Faris' manager is called Nick. He's in his early thirties, about the same age as Rhys. He's got a small vinyl collection, and he's gay, too, but what Rhys calls _masc-acting gay_ , even if he does wear tight jeans and ridiculous scarves no matter how warm it is outside. Also, unlike Rhys, he's got all the pretentious attitude that normally comes with being an obnoxious record-collecting hipster, and he makes it obvious that he never _wanted_ to end up in the manager position at a chain craft supply shop. At this point Faris is sure he could be lining his pockets with ten-quid-each markers out in the open while eating pennies the way other people eat candy, and Nick wouldn't even _blink_.

Come to think of it, Faris is also pretty sure that Nick caught him slipping a two pence coin into his mouth during a particularly desolate Thursday morning shift. He didn’t say anything.

–

BedMates is closed on Sundays, so Faris always heads right back home after his Sunday shift. Normally he sits out the four extra stops, but today, it's a bank holiday Sunday and the city's crawling with early party goers and late day trippers. The bus is even more suffocatingly full of perfume and odour than usual, and below that, the overwhelming stink of copper pennies lingers.

Today's a warm day, heavy and humid with the funk of rubbish from the garbage bags out on the pavement up in the air. A thick layer of grey clouds over London traps the heat between the buildings. The same stink of decay that normally only occurs much later in the year lies on the wind, just like when the heat wave is at its highest point and the city drowns in rot. Faris has read about this, about how the smell before rain is really just the way _air_ smells, emphasised by the moisture. He guesses maybe this is the same phenomenon.

Faris kicks at a lumpy-looking trash bag and feels it budge with a mushy, organic yield against the tip of his shoe, and he's instantly filled with a feeling of vague dread. Lots of haemos in the area, he knows, and he also knows they've been discordant since the general election. He's read all about it online.

He remembers the last major haemo uprising, too, of course, the news footage he watched and the books he had to read for his Vampire History elective back during his A Levels. It all started with body parts found in bins and back alleys. Faris gags, not so much at the thought as he does at the fact that he's thinking it. He keeps on walking.

“Vees,” he says to himself, out loud so he can actually hear it. “They prefer to be called _Vees_.”

It's a deeply-ingrained prejudice, Faris knows that. He knows a lot of the weirder things people say about Vees, the stories about secret Vampire-only communes up in the Scottish Highlands that breed cattle to suck its blood and sell the meat to high-end restaurants or the idea they can't enter a house unless they've been invited inside. Those are just lies and rumours and conspiracies, but he also knows the primal fear he's been raised into, all the _filthy haemo_ s and _bloodsucker_ s he's heard that agitated it, and the lurid news stories. Faris understands how it works, of course. He's not _stupid_. It's the same power dynamic he's been on the receiving end of for being brown and gay, but some of the thoughts that were instilled into him are harder to shake than others.

Thankfully, that's when his phone buzzes with a text inside his pocket and snaps Faris out from his thoughts. It's Josh, of course, or as he’d entered his name into Faris’ phone well over a year ago, _Joshuaaa_ with the bear emoji and two Xs.

 _what you doing_ , the text reads. Faris swipes over it to respond.

_Smelling gross things. Wbu?_

The little pending text bubble only flashes for a millisecond before Josh’s reply comes in with another buzz. _nothing rlly, rhys just left for their DJ thing_. Then a second text comes in, reading, _im gross come smell me_

Rhys DJs at a number of gay clubs and indie clubs across the city ever so often, and the occasional gay indie night, too, but Faris had completely forgotten they had a gig tonight until now. Not that he was planning on going either way.

A third text comes in, nothing but the aubergine emoji, three times.

Faris rolls his eyes, but he sends back three of the tongue-out-open-mouth emojis either way. He’s slowly getting the hang of this sexting thing.

_i havent showered in 2 days_

_I’m over in 10_

Faris loves the way Josh smells, always has. He lets himself into the flat with his spare key, and he already smells it before he’s even walked up the stairs. Josh’s standing at the tiny landing up top, in his trackie bottoms and a ratty emo band t-shirt, no socks.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Faris says back. He has to bend down a little ways to say it in Josh’s ear and get a good whiff of him as he does.

His musk’s changed since he started hormones four months ago, stronger and headier. With his sense of smell newly amplified, Faris inhales it much deeper, all the way into his lungs like he would with a good strain of weed. He keeps his hands bracketing Josh’s hips, soft under the waistband of his trackies, and walks him back the few steps through the door of his room.

“You smell _really_ good,” he says, when he’s pushed Josh down onto the narrow mattress to press himself all the way along his body. His nose remains fixed to the crook where Josh’s neck melds into his shoulders, where the blood pulses in the fat vein under the skin and the sweat gathers.

“Thank you.” Josh cackles.

They don’t kiss when they do this, at least not usually, and much less like this, when they’ve both still got their clothes on. Josh insists that it feels weird when all they do is just shag, and as much as Faris loves kissing, he’s not going to argue it. Besides, inhaling Josh’s musk as their bodies meld together feels so much more intimate than snogging could ever be, he reckons. Faris shuts his eyes and the smell explodes in his brain as colourful nebulae, so deep he can taste it in the back of his mouth. He thinks of animal instincts, pheromones, primal urges, as his nose presses deeper into skin, body presses deeper into body.

“You’re getting hard,” Josh points out.

Faris only hums. His jeans are too tight.

“What do I smell like?”

“Like man.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. It’s true.”

Faris brings one hand up to Josh’s chest where he could already feel he’s not wearing his binder, just feeling the flesh through his shirt. He wants to take all of Josh’s clothes off, now, wants to feel their skin stick together and roll himself in that musk. He starts with toeing his Chelseas and socks off.

“Wait,” Faris says. “You’re home alone, right?”

He does remember that Harry said something about going out to dinner and then a girls-only play party yesterday, but he feels that he should make sure either way.

“‘f course,” Josh says back. “So we can be loud.”

Faris only laughs at him and goes to pull his own shirt off as he watches Josh undress.

He doesn’t hesitate with taking his clothes off in front of Josh, not anymore, but he leaves his pants on for now after he’s wiggled out of his skinny fits. Like this, they match, sort of, Faris in his underwear and Josh in his awful My Chemical Romance tee rucked up into his armpits and over his chest, almost naked but not quite. The smell’s even more intoxicating now, and whether that’s because of all of Josh’s skin laid out bare or if it’s coming from his bare _cunt_ , Faris doesn’t know. But he’s gonna find out.

“I wanna eat you,” he says, when he’s managed to ease his face away from the sweat-musk-funk-drenched skin of Josh’s chest for a second. He trembles for a split second before he adds, “Your cunt.”

His face still feels hot with the blood rush every time he uses that word, the way it felt the very first time Faris asked Josh if he could call it that. Even if Josh’s response had essentially been, _if you’re going to put your face in it I don’t care_. He can feel the wetness through the fabric of his briefs, feel how drenched Josh is for him already, and he’s going to do exactly that. Put his face in it, that is.

“Go ahead.”

The bed’s too narrow and too short for both of them to fit like this, but Faris doesn’t hesitate with sinking down onto the floor and dragging Josh’s legs open for him to fit between. He dives in right away, noses into Josh's slit with the coarse hair grinding against his face to take a deep drag, and he hums when his thumbs pull Josh apart so he can properly lick him out.

He's always liked this, the sensation of being suffocated with cunt that comes with giving Josh head, the subjugation and submission of giving head in general, but now he’s really burying his face between Josh’s legs, rubbing his nose deep into his folds to take it all in. Faris wants to crawl into Josh, wants to get deeper than his tongue or his fingers can reach, he wants to taste that musk beyond lapping up Josh's slick, deep in the back of his throat.

Later, after Josh's pushed Faris' head away from his slit, when he's got his legs spread wide to properly get pounded, Faris keeps his face buried in the scruff of his armpit the whole time, so when he comes, his whole head is flooded with funk and skin and pheromones.

–

Faris never goes home right after they do this. They've somehow arranged themselves on Josh's tiny mattress, Josh on the head end and Faris on the foot end with his legs hanging down onto the floor. He's pulled his pants back on, and Josh's discarded My Chemical Romance shirt, even if it reeks of sweat and sex and funk, or maybe precisely because of that.

The clouds broke at some point while they were shagging. Faris couldn't pinpoint it with the groaning of the bedstead and all the groans coming from Josh, but now the room is quiet, almost too quiet between the raindrops drumming on the roof and Josh's fingers clacking away on his laptop. Faris himself let his phone connect to Rhys' Wi-Fi, _HOT GAY WIFI ACTION_ , the name that was most definitely Josh's doing. For the last few minutes, he's been scrolling through his Facebook feed and looking for a suitable conversation topic to break the silence.

“Did you hear there’s a Vampire protest going on in Trafalgar Square tonight?”

Maybe that wasn't the most appropriate conversation starter, but it's fresh on his brain after what happened on his way home.

“Why you asking?”

Josh doesn't turn his eyes from the laptop screen when he answers. He's only got the reading lamp on in his tiny windowless room, so his face and chest are flooded in the blue light from where he keeps the computer balanced on his belly.

“It was quiet,” Faris says. “I just saw a post about it, is all.”

Josh makes a noise that Faris can't place and continues clacking on the keyboard. “I think Rhys said they were going to that, before they remembered they had a gig on tonight.”

No further response. Faris isn't sure whether he should be relieved by that or insulted by the fact that he's being ignored. He hums out a sound.

“You're rumbling,” Josh points out.

 _Rumbling_ , that's probably the most accurate way to describe every sound Faris makes, which obviously explains why it's Josh's word of choice when he wants to rile Faris up. It doesn't really work this time, however.

Faris says back, “You're ignoring me.” He brings one foot up to prod Josh's belly where it squishes out over the waistband of his trackie bottoms.

“Code.” Josh carries on typing frantically, and he kicks back towards whatever part of Faris he can reach, which happens to be his hip.

“Why's your code more interesting than me?”

Josh got into programming after he completed his physics degree. Now he does freelance work when he's not helping out in the shop, which mainly means he stays up until four in the morning pissing about on the internet and occasionally writing a few lines of code.

“Deadline,” Josh says. “And they emailed me today and they want to implement a new feature for their search algorithm, so now I need to work that out 'til tomorrow.”

The whole time, his fingers won't stop typing, and Faris can't help but be slightly impressed. _Click click click click click_ , he counts five clicks and then five times two, times three, twenty-five and so on. Josh's working on some new dating portal, apparently, aimed specifically at queer singles.

Faris pauses counting the idiosyncratic clicks to poke Josh with his foot again and goes, “Uh huh.”

“Yeah, it's like,” Josh says. He pulls a tissue from the box lying next to him to wipe some excess sweat from his chest and continues, “They want a feature where it's like, if you're looking for a specific body type or hair colour, there's an option to pick _adjacent_ , so, say, if you're looking for someone whose body type is _average_ , they'll also show you some people who picked _pudgy_ or _light muscle_ or _lean_ , or whatever.”

He wrinkles his nose, and Faris wrinkles his nose back.

“Who the hell picks their dating partner based on their _hair colour_?” he asks.

“I wish I could say _straight people_.”

Josh rearranges his feet to sit straight up, Indian style, which conveniently removes his more sensitive parts from Faris' reach, but Faris still takes advantage of the freed-up space to move the rest of his legs up onto the mattress.

“Is this a dating site or a _hookup_ site?”

“I don't know,” Josh says. “Lines are blurred.”

Faris draws his legs closer to himself and inhales the sex-foggy musty air. Smells like Josh and jizz and his own personal smell, the one he's so accustomed to, and like copper pennies.

“I think I'll go shower. Maybe your code's finished when I'm done.”

“Hopefully,” Josh says and sticks his tongue out without looking up.

–

The very next morning, Faris wakes up with an unbearable itching under his skin.

He gropes for his phone where it's resting on the bedside table, half-blind without his contacts in. A distant ringing noise plays in his head, the alarm, _obviously_. Faris is ready to hit snooze as soon as he's got his phone in his hand.

Except.

 _Except_ , Faris notes through his blurry eyes and drowsy brain, his phone isn't ringing at all. He has to hold the screen two inches from his face, arm twitching with the urge to scratch everywhere, but then he can very clearly make out the time, 5.24 AM. His alarm doesn't even go off for another hour and a half. _And_ , predictably enough, that's the moment that he drops his phone on his face.

Faris rolls over, every drag of the sheets and the duvet flaring up his nerves, and he unlocks his phone and enters WebMD into the browser's search bar.

The ringing won't _stop_ , and he's itching but he dare not scratch. Scratching leads to picking leads to cutting and every single one of those leads him right into crazy compulsive land by itself. Actually, Faris reaches for the blister packs of his pills on the bedside first, the bottle of water he keeps next to the bed to wash them down, before he clicks on the symptom checker.

He chooses the _skin_ option, selects _itching or burning_ , and the website presents him with a whole separate form.

 _Where are you experiencing itching or burning?_ it asks, and Faris bites the inside of his cheek in frustration. He goes down the list and checks every single option.

WebMD says it's an allergic reaction, most likely. Faris almost drops his phone on his face again at that. He objectively knows diagnosing himself online is stupid, but he still wishes the internet wouldn't give him broadly defined non-answers. The other option is dermatitis, but he holds his hand up to his face, close enough that he can see in the sparse light coming from his phone screen. He's pretty sure dermatitis is a thing that's plainly visible, whether it's a rash or just a reddening of the skin.

Faris twists under the sheets, lets the fibres irritate his sore skin, and it's maybe purely out of spite, knowing that he's itching but he _can't scratch_. The ringing carries on but whether it's all his screwed-up brain, he has no idea. No matter if it's real or not, though, it doesn't fade when he presses his fingertips into his ears, like it's coming from within his body. He always thought the whole _blood is singing_ was merely a metaphor, and he turns around to face the wall.

The blinds block out most of the sunrise coming in from outside, but still, Faris buries his head underneath the pillow until his phone finally rings for him to actually get up. Whether he slept at all, he's not sure when he sits up and gropes for his bottle of water once again. The ringing hasn’t stopped, though, and neither has the itching in his skin.

Faris grabs a change of clothes and heads for the bathroom. He thinks maybe the itching is Rhys' fancy body wash he used last night, some obscure ingredient he didn't know he was allergic to. It's maybe, definitely that, Faris tells himself when he spends a whole ten minutes scrubbing his entire body.

–

“My friend said she's doing a launch party for Dionysus next week,” Harry says.

She's doing the register since Rhys is currently advising some customers, two middle-aged men who Faris _definitely_ isn't picturing shagging, on double-ended dildos. Josh's been pissing about in the back room since before he came in, which means he's cackling to himself while packing up online orders.

“Dionysus?” Faris repeats.

“You know, the dating site?” Harry helpfully holds up one of the handfuls of pastel rainbow fliers they've got lying on the counter, which does indeed have a big DIONYSUS logo on it. _UK-centric gender-inclusive hookups and dating_ , it says underneath. “Josh finished the beta for it last night, it looks great.”

“That's great.” Faris sips his tea, careful to not just yet swallow down the penny he's had under his tongue since before his shift ended. He says, “He ignored me the whole time yesterday so he could work on his code.”

Harry laughs at him. “Classic Josh.”

“Yeah.”

Faris never knows what to say when he's talking to Harry as just the two of them, even if he's known her for just as long as he's known Rhys, and almost as long as he's known Josh. He supposes it's a bonding thing, no _special gay bond_ , as she calls it, like there is between Faris and Rhys, and no _shagging_ bond, like between him and Josh. At least, that's the interpretation that lets him pretend he isn't horrifically socially awkward around most people.

“So… what was that about a launch party?”

“Right.” Harry smiles. She's got the same thousand-watt smile as Rhys, the same dimples in her cheeks and chin and strong cheekbones that makes it obvious they're related, even if on her, it looks much more deliberately put together. “So, you know, I know one of the ladies behind the website, and she's doing a reception with cocktails and this up-and-coming DJ and all. She said it's supposed to be a hybrid of a regular party and a cocktail party.”

“Sounds posh,” Faris comments.

“It is, it's in this rental loft in Kensington.”

“Do they have a dress code?”

“Smart casual,” Harry says. “Little black dress for the femmes, blazers and black ties for the butches.”

“I'm not a butch.”

“No, you're not.” She laughs. “But I was just wondering if you'd like to come, 'cause it's thirty quid for a regular ticket and they've got limited capacity, but we're all on the guest list, 'cause of BedMates and for Josh 'cause he programmed half the website, so I'm sure we could get you a plus-one if you like.”

“Yeah, I'll think about it.”

The other thing that brings Rhys and Harry together as siblings is that once they've gotten started, they really could talk about any given subject for hours on end. Although Faris doesn’t particularly mind most of the time, and he bounces his leg where he's thrown it over the other to scratch the itch on his inner thighs. The itching hasn’t stopped at any point during the day, but it hasn't gotten worse, either.

“Some guy ordered three of the biggest dildo we've got in stock,” Josh says, then, from where he's appeared in front of the counter. “I've no idea what you're talking about, but that's my answer.”

He pushes himself back behind the counter, and Faris and Harry both make way so he can take his designated place in the very corner of it.

Harry says, “Wow,” and pulls a face that may as well be awe.

“How big is that?” Faris asks, and immediately asks himself if he wants to know the answer to that question.

“Like, as thick as my wrist,” Josh estimates, and he does a finger-measuring gesture. “About this long, balls and all.”

“Why does someone want to buy that?”

“There's a demand, we supply it,” Harry says, matter-of-fact.

Faris simply wrinkles his nose.

This is the main reason he much prefers his job with annoying hipster Nick and his annoying hipster employees, even if he knows the shop and the Sleepovers together gather enough profit that Rhys has offered him a job with the same wage at least twice. It's just so much _easier_ to sell craft supplies to people with a straight face. He casts a glance over to where one half of the middle-aged couple is currently fondling a double dildo that resembles two shockingly lifelike dongs grafted together while Rhys chatters on about the benefits of that particular model.

“Just when I thought I'd managed to _not_ think about them using that dildo,” Faris says under his breath.

Josh cackles.

Harry asks, “What?”

“Nothing.”

Josh says, “ _Professionalism_ ,” in a shockingly accurate imitation of Rhys' stern business owner voice.

“I'm your plus-one,” Faris says.

“Cool.”

–

Friday night, they're eating curries at the Indian place next to BedMates, after they'd been to some shoegaze gig Josh had insisted on dragging him to. Faris hated the actual band, some shaggy-haired indie kids who evidently thought the only requirement for being a good shoegaze band is to use as many effect pedals and make the most obnoxious noise possible. But Josh paid for all his drinks, so he feels it was pretty worth it for that alone.

They sit down at the table by the window inside the cramped restaurant space, and Faris opens his takeaway box to an onslaught of spicy-savoury flavours, sharp enough in his brain that he has to blink away a tiny tear.

“Not tough enough for a medium curry, are you?”

“Piss off,” Faris says back, and he says, “'s the nose.”

“The nose,” Josh repeats. “The nose knows.”

Faris grants him a singular dry laugh for that pun.

“'specially yours. Got a big nose.” Josh reaches out to clasp his fingers over Faris' face.

Faris grabs his wrist and pushes it away in retaliation. “Do not touch me.”

He reaches for his plastic knife and fork and digs into his curry, picking out a piece of chicken. It tastes much the way it smells, something about how the senses are intrinsically linked, rich and flavourful and definitely _too much_. Well, it's not that Faris _doesn't_ like food spicy enough to make his mouth burn, but he did only order the medium curry he usually gets.

At the very least, the wall of flavour and heat hanging around them provides a distraction to the perpetual itch Faris has under his skin. He watches Josh dig into his own takeaway box, too, vegetarian and _extra_ hot, he'd emphasised that part when he ordered after Faris.

“D'you want some of my chicken?”

“Pussy chicken,” Josh says back. “No offence, but I'm pretty sure if I had any I wouldn't even be able to taste it.”

“It's a miracle you've got any taste buds left.”

“I do what I have to do.” Josh shoves a forkful into his mouth. With his lips red from the spice, he says, “Somebody's gotta do it.”

“Literally _nobody_ has to do it,” Faris says in his most deliberately deadpan voice. “Whatever _it_ is.”

Josh makes a cracking noise that _might_ have been an aborted cackle. “D'you want my naan?”

It's a stupid vaguely passive-aggressive gesture, but still, Faris takes the bread from Josh's hand to dip it down into his curry. “Cheers.”

Josh continues wolfing down his vegetable curry, and with his mouth full, he says, “You see, the thing is…” He swallows and says, “The thing is you should always get a vegetarian curry if you're getting one, 'cause it's better to get a dodgy vegetable curry than a dodgy curry with meat in.”

Faris looks over to the counter, and he shakes his head and says, “Josh,” mock scolding. “You literally live next to these people.”

“I'm not saying this place is dodgy, it's not,” Josh says. “But it's… it's a habit you get into. You just start questioning why you'd even bother with the meat in the first place when the veggie curry's just as tasty and you're not going to get salmonella from it.”

Faris shrugs whole-heartedly and says, “I guess.” He dunks his naan into the sauce again and bites off, and he relishes the chicken flavour that's retained in the broth mostly out of spite. Right now, he craves something else more than that, even if they’re in a public place.

He has to contort to get his wallet from the pocket of his skinny fits without getting up, but he manages. Faris doesn't usually carry cash, but he's got a handful of two pence pieces that he's snuck out from the register at work, and he pops one into his mouth right in front of Josh's eyes.

“Mate,” Josh starts, forehead wrinkled underneath his stupid bleached emo fringe.

Faris cuts him off straight away. “I can't stop,” he starts. Right then, he swallows and the coin goes down with it dry. “I can't stop eating those fucking _copper pennies_.” He lets the statement hang in the quiet restaurant air, in the eyebrow-searing spice, and decides that it makes for a good dramatic line. He picks another piece of chicken out of his curry.

“I'm pretty sure that's one way to get rabies, you know?”

“Rabies,” Faris repeats.

“It's either rabies or herpes.” Josh pulls a face and says, “If they get clogged up in your intestine and you die, I'm coming to your funeral to laugh at your corpse.”

“They always come back out.” Faris pokes at his food. “So far. I've been counting.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Josh says back, but that doesn't stop him from stuffing his face with another forkful.

“It's actually really annoying, you know. The eating small change thing, I mean.”

“You know what it really means, right?” Josh does the gesture where he taps two fingertips against his jugular, and then uses the same two fingers to point at his canines to make it even more obvious what he's getting at. Through the V formed by his fingers, he says, “Means you're a filthy haemo.”

“Vee,” Faris says back, mainly out of reflex. “That's bullshit. That's haemophobic propaganda made up two hundred years ago to make people believe Vampires were a threat to their personal wealth.” He says, “It's like the Vampire money thing but even stupider.”

Josh only cuts a grimace and sticks his tongue out at him. He checks his phone to find two unread text notifications. It’s ten to midnight, Faris reads the time upside-down. This place stays open until one every night due to the high Vee concentration in the area, they've got the _VAMPIRE-POSITIVE_ sticker by the door and all. Faris doesn't feel they'll stay much longer, though, since both their boxes are as good as empty.

“So,” Josh says when he's replied to whatever text, in that matter-of-fact tone he only ever uses when he's about to offer sexual favours. “D'you want like… a blow job after this?”

Faris scrapes what's left of his curry out from the Styrofoam box. He thinks about his desolate bed in his desolate room, about being left alone with the itch and the stupid ringing that won't go away. Then he thinks about Rhys and Harry's uncomfortable sofa, which actually seems quite cosy when compared to the alternative.

“I guess.”


	2. hunger

Faris oversleeps the next morning.

He only wakes up when the itch on his skin becomes unbearable, squints at the sunlight shining right into his face through the gap in the curtains. It takes him a good second to remember he's sleeping on Rhys' couch. Faris has always hated that couch, from the ugly banana-yellow upholstery to the atrocious retro-future angular design, not to mention it's so low he's never entirely sure how to stand back up from it. He gropes for his phone where he's left it on the coffee table, still sluggish with dizzy half-sleep. As soon as he sees the time, he promptly falls off the couch in a cliché expression.

Nine o'clock on the spot. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_.

Faris is not a person who really _gets_ hangovers, one advantage of lugging this cartoonishly tall lanky body around, or maybe of not being allowed to have more than three drinks at once. Still, he mutters a string of curses into his own mouth and almost cracks his head open on the table edge when he struggles to get up.

Another frantic chant of _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_ leaves his lips when he stumbles into the bathroom. He washes down his meds, the day’s doses he always keeps in his backpack just in case, with water from the sink, and he refuses to make eye contact with his reflection.

Fuck Josh for buying him pints and giving him blowies, fuck himself for sleeping two whole hours past his alarm, fuck Rhys and fuck Harry for not waking him up at any point, and fuck himself _again_ for working this shitty retail job with its shitty nine-to-five shifts.

He doesn't stop cursing to himself when he goes to shower, and he's going to assume it's at least partially that what motivates him to get ready in record time. _Yes_ , he makes a point of using Rhys' weird expensive body wash again. Faris has to run up the road to catch the bus, and he's already bullshitting up an excuse to explain Nick why he's almost an hour late to work.

–

 _jw why nick hasnt fired you yet_ , Josh's reply comes when Faris has texted the entire story to the group chat during his lunch break.

_It's because Im the only of his employees whos sexually available to him when in doubt_

He's in the back room chowing down on a Greggs steak bake, still steaming hot and dripping with grease and gravy. The perk of this job, asides from the five-finger discount on expensive art supplies and the Greggs just around the corner, Faris supposes it’s that the uniform polo shirts are made of some weird cool synthetic material that soothes his itching somewhat. A sad perk, yes, but he'll take what he can get.

_kidding. Its because he doesn't give a fuck and he hates his job more than I hate my job_

Faris takes another big bite of his steak bake, it's about as good as a two-quid pastry will get, although he can't help but feel that it's missing a certain something.

_Do you think you can tell the greggs people to make your steak bake extra rare?_

Josh writes back, _HAHAHAHAHA twat._

Another reply flashes up on the screen, this one from Rhys. _Hahaha no x They're pre baked silly_

Faris simply shrugs at his phone, fully well aware that's not a proper answer, and he digs for another penny in his pocket to slip into his mouth.

–

Faris doesn't come to the address Josh had given him, a newly-built posh estate in Kensington, until late. By the time he gets there, there's already a queue in front of the loft's door, all the way down to the landing of the floor below. The dress code does seem to be the typical cocktail party one, tiny dresses and sharply-cut suits, all monochromatic, but with the odd pair of silver high heels, and glittering sequins everywhere. Faris stalks past all of them to get straight to the bouncers, and he can't help but feel slightly superior even in this objectively ridiculous getup. He hasn't worn a suit since graduation, or even a button-up with a tie, so he's wearing this blouse-y black top he might have stolen from Rhys, together with his least scuffed-up pair of skinny jeans and some shiny black charity shop loafers. A little, he's surprised by the crowd drawn to a dating portal launch party in a loft on a _Wednesday night_ , but then, this is Kensington after all.

Faris gives his name to the bouncer and tells him he's Joshua Hayward's plus-one. After a sceptical once-over and after he's showed his passport, he's in.

A woman in a sparkling silver mini dress hands him a flyer with the Dionysus logo that seems to be printed on iridescent paper, shimmering in rainbow colours under the bright light of the entrance hallway. “Here's your complementary thirty-day free trial code.”

Faris folds it in half and pockets it, although he doubts he's going to actually use it.

The loft looks precisely how he pictured it, one of those posh modern hipster flats with exposed brick walls and impeccably white fluffy carpeting, with too much light and too many mirrors everywhere. The entire open living space is crowded with party goers, swimming with a suffocating mixture of perfume and funk. Faris slinks his way through the bodies to get to the bar built in the furthest corner. He feels too big and awkward in his body at the best of times, but here, in a room packed with people that are almost all much smaller than he is, it only agitates every nasty anxious sensation in his body. What's more, he can't see Josh anywhere. Through the chatter of other people's conversations around him and the pop diva music thumping quiet but steadily, the ringing in his brain becomes louder and louder.

Faris orders a whiskey and coke once he's pushed himself to the bar. He tells the bar person to put it on Josh's tab, and he's not really sure where to go from here. A couple of girls are dancing amidst the crowd under the customary kitschy disco ball, none of them much older than he is. Faris has always thought that anyone above a certain height looks ridiculous while dancing, though, so he merely sips his drink through the straw. They've got a DJ spinning records in the corner across from the bar, a tall guy with an impressive quiff dyed an obnoxious shade of blonde and pink who Faris has never seen before. Just like that, he remembers the reason he normally doesn't go to parties.

“Oi!” A voice cuts through the steady hum of sound. “Oi, oi, Bird Man!”

Faris turns his head towards the general direction the voice seems to be coming from. Right then, something hits him in the side of the head, and it bounces off and then again off his shoulder. From the bright pink colour Faris identifies it as a crumpled up BedMates flyer. He spins around to where _that_ came from, only to see Josh squished onto a suede settee next to two girls.

Josh gives him an obnoxious finger-twiddling wave, a brightly-coloured cocktail in his other hand. He looks _delightfully_ sloshed, face pink and hair pushed back big and messy. He _sounds_ sloshed, too, when he drawls out another shout of “Bird Maaaaaaan.” As Faris approaches, he scoots up closer to the two girls, although both of them seem too wrapped up in each other to notice.

“Sorry, it's a bit cuddly,” he says.

Faris only mumbles out, “It's cool, it's cool,” and lifts himself up to sit on the arm rest.

“Hey,” Josh says, big sleazy drunken grin showing off his fangs.

“Hey,” Faris says back. He stretches out his free hand to grope Josh's face, his exceptionally squishy cheeks, and smushes his lips together into a floppy fish mouth. “Twat.”

Josh blows a raspberry at him even through his hold.

“Sorry I'm late,” Faris says then and sips his drink. “I didn't want to come.”

Josh pouts and mocks, “Aww.”

The way he's sitting, Faris has to slouch over down low to actually be face to face with Josh in what's really not a comfortable position. Still, he sticks out his bottom lip to mimic Josh's expression and drawls out a long, scolding “ _Awwwwwww_ ”.

Josh simply swats at his face.

“Where's the rest of us?”

“Rhys is…” Josh scrunches up his face. “You know, they actually managed to bring their twinky boyfriend as their plus-one but I haven't seen either of them in a while, I think they might have gone home already.”

“Oh.”

Faris doesn't know what to say other than _oh_. He's not sure if he wants to meet Rhys' boyfriend, actually, considering all he really knows of him is his obnoxiously twinky Grindr profile picture and the fact that apparently he's loud during sex.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Josh says. As if he knew exactly what Faris was thinking, he says, “At this point I'm just glad if they're doing it while I'm not at home, you know?”

Faris makes a face that, he supposes, communicates both understanding and amusement, or at least he hopes it does.

“I mean, Joe's nice, he's _really_ nice, but that doesn't mean I want to know what he sounds like when he _cums_.”

“Joe,” Faris blankly repeats. Maybe he should start to remember twinky boyfriend's name, but on the other hand, he feels he can put that off until the point when they actually _meet_.

“Yeah, anyway.” Josh rearranges himself to draw one knee to his chest, but neither of the girls seem bothered by the way he spreads out on the couch, considering they're this close to sitting in each other's laps. “I've lost Harry somewhere over there, she was talking to her friend on the team about the app and then she's been trying to pull some girl, so… I'm probably the only one who's not fucking anyone tonight.” He cackles, shrill and obnoxious even over the music.

“Aww,” Faris goes once again, square between sincere and sarcastic. He reaches out to ruffle Josh's hair, sweaty and matted with hairspray at the crown of his head, only to receive an exceptionally sleazy smile in return.

On the other end of the settee, the girls get up hand in hand and sneak their way through the crowd towards somewhere, whether it's the bar or somewhere more private. Josh immediately takes the opportunity to scoot over onto their now-vacant spot.

“Come sit here.”

Faris hums as he pushes himself down from the arm rest. The upholstery's much more comfortable, so at least there's that, and he can stretch his legs out over Josh's lap.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Faris says back. He sips his drink and says, “Hope you're okay with paying for my drinks considering they only take cash.”

“You can just make it up to me.”

Josh pushes Faris' legs right off his lap to sit with both his feet on the upholstery. He's wearing those ridiculous white winklepickers and a blazer over one of his ugly graphic t-shirts, which is apparently his idea of smart-casual. He hums tonelessly over the song the DJ is playing now, some semi-unknown New Order track. For a little bit, they only sit in silence, Josh with his feet slowly inching into Faris' lap, and all Faris can do is sip his drink and let the itch sit in his skin. The blousy shirt is loose along the line of his body but tight at the neckline, and his skinny jeans are even tighter. Faris slips two fingers underneath his shirt collar to lift it for at least some momentary relief.

“Hot in here?” Josh nudges Faris' thigh with the heel of his boot.

“Just my skin being weird,” Faris says back. “Think I'm allergic to something.”

“Long as it's not contagious,” Josh says back and settles deeper into his end of the couch, and that's that, apparently.

Faris listens to the conversation snippets around him through the music, half of small talk and half of an attempt to pull. Some girl talks about how the ten-quid-a-month subscription fee is well worth it for a dating portal where all profiles are hand-curated to avoid online harassment, but with that one Faris can't tell if she's genuinely excited or if promoting Dionysus is something she gets paid to do. Eventually he finishes his drink so all he can do after that is suffer and melt deeper into the upholstery.

Even now, outside is still hot and humid, hotter than he feels early June should ever be, and even inside the house, _especially_ in the loft with hundreds of bodies keeping the warm air trapped between them, there's a thin film of sweat sticking to his chest and neck. Faris picks what's left of one ice cube from his glass to eat it, and he presses the cold glass to the big vein on the side of his neck. The suede feels gummy underneath his back, despite the fabric of his shirt, soaked with other people's sweat and skin cells. Faris lays his free arm firmly across his middle to avoid touching the settee with his bare skin.

“Hey?” Josh's boot nudging his thigh just an inch away from his groin scares Faris up from his thoughts. “I'm gonna go snoop around, see what else they've got in this place. Okay?”

Faris says, “Okay,” and reaches his empty glass out to Josh. “Bring me another drink when you get back.”

Josh simply winks. With that, he's off winding his way through the crowd, and Faris sinks back into the upholstery to suffer.

 _you know the door you see when you come in_ , a text from Josh buzzes into his phone not five minutes after Faris decided to resign to his fate.

_not the bathroom door the other one_

_its the rest of the flat like the kitchen and stuff and theres 2 bedrooms_

_i’m in the very right one come over_

While he simply sits and watches the texts appear on his screen one after the other, his phone buzzes once more with a different notification, a snap from Josh-with-the-bear-emoji.

Faris only downloaded Snapchat to let Josh bother him, so he taps to open it right away. As soon as he does, he regrets his decision and deeply, deeply hopes that no one happened to catch a glance over his shoulder at that time. The picture's got front camera grain all over it, shot with that weird flash function, but it's very undeniably a picture of Josh, or rather, Josh's two fingers spreading his slit open wide for the camera. Just as soon as he's shut the snap again, maybe half a second after he opened it, Faris receives _another_ text from Josh. This one is merely the aubergine emoji, too many of the fucking aubergine emoji for him to be bothered to count.

Well, Faris supposes Josh won't bring him a drink when he gets back.

He gets up to navigate the room once again, pushes past Harry where she's still chatting to a bird with short red hair. In passing, he winks, although he's fairly certain she didn't see it. The hallway seems even more crowded than before, now that he's pushing in the opposite direction from the crowd, but finally he reaches the end and slips through that door. Maybe he gets a momentary rush of adrenaline, even if he’s not sure anyone ever _said_ that part of the flat was off-limits. Really, it’s more of a hall than a corridor, he finds that when he uses his phone's screen to navigate it. Either way, he's completely certain nobody saw him sneak in.

Faris knocks on the right-most door, the one Josh mentioned.

In response, a forced high-pitched voice sing-songs, “Occupied!”

“Josh?”

“Alright, come in.”

Once again, Faris uses his phone to shine light into the dark room, the only other light source being what little comes in from outside through the windows. Josh's sprawled out on the bed, stark-naked save for his ridiculous star-printed socks, but Faris is too used to the sight for it to be a real turn-off.

“You're bloody mad,” Faris comments on the entire situation, but he's quick to turn off the flashlight and strip that stupid shirt off over his head anyway.

“Don't say you never wanted to shag someone at a house party, come on,” Josh's voice comes from somewhere in the dark.

Faris’ sense of smell feels even more amplified in the dark, the chemical sweet of an unfamiliar fabric softener and the sweet, sweet tang of _cunt,_ but even then, he doesn't think that's quite enough for him to find Josh.

“Turn on the bedside light,” Faris says in his best stern voice.

“Get your cock out,” Josh retorts, but the light turns on with a _snap_. “Might want to be quick, in case we get caught.”

Faris doesn't hesitate to wiggle his way out of his skinnies right away. His pants had been a bit tight since he first received that snap, he'll readily admit that, so it takes no time for him to get to fully hard in Josh's mouth once he's knelt down on the mattress, and even less time for his hands to slot in Josh's already-ruined hair to properly fuck his mouth.

“You're gonna have to cum in my mouth later on,” Josh says when he's popped Faris' dick out from between his lips, when Faris told him that he doesn't want to come just yet. “'cause I don't want to run the risk of leaving DNA evidence, and I don't wanna sit in your jizz on the bus home.”

“You're gross,” Faris says back, but he shuffles down the mattress to slip his fingers into Josh's slit either way.

–

There's a twenty-four-hour McDonalds a few streets away from the loft, right next to their bus stop. Josh orders them five cheeseburgers with the fiver he found in his jacket pocket, the only cash he's got left on his person.

“Strictly hypothetically… Is there any way you can make the burgers extra rare?” Faris asks back when their cashier asks if they'd like anything else.

Their cashier is a girl around their age, but a good foot shorter than Faris, probably South Asian with dusky skin and long black hair pulled into a ponytail. She looks him up and down with a sceptical look, as if to tell whether he's taking the piss or not.

Finally, she says, “Sorry, but. This is _McDonalds_.”

Josh lets out the cracking sound of a suppressed giggle. Faris punches him in the arm for it, but they take the tray with their burgers and find a corner to sit down either way.

“I'm thirsty,” Josh says once he's taken a good bite out of his first burger.

“You're always thirsty,” Faris points out, and he peels the wrapper back from his own burger to eat.

The whole restaurant has a steady reek of frying grease to it, only amplified when Faris bites into his cheeseburger. Right now, parched from sweating out all day and from shagging Josh just now, he couldn't imagine a more heavenly smell. He takes an even bigger bite than Josh just did, gnaws down onto the meat and its flavour, and he can't help but groan in appreciation.

“Need to get the taste of cum out of my mouth,” Josh says. “You should just, like… get with the program. Get your dick chopped off. No more mess.”

“I like having a dick.” Faris wrinkles his forehead and takes another big bite. “And you like my dick.”

“I _don't_ ,” Josh insists. “I hate men with big dicks. They're always broody and moody and self-important, and they're always like…” Josh lowers his voice to the deepest, most monotone affectation he can muster up and says, “ _Oh, Josh, can I please do it in your mouth tonight, I don't want my jizz on those people's sheets?_ ”

“Bullshit,” Faris says back, but he must admit it sounds _shockingly_ like the fake voice Josh just put on. He kicks Josh's shin under the table.

Josh only sniggers in response. “No, no, it's fine,” he says once it's ebbed off. “I get it, some people are cis, and that's okay.” He bites into his burger once again and says, muffled through the mush of food in his mouth, “One of my flatmates is cis, and I've got _no_ problem with that, she's just like a regular girl to me.”

Faris can't help but snort out a laugh. He reaches for another burger on the tray and digs in. _Really_ , he can't tell if he's even fucking hungry anymore.

“I've had a really bad craving for red meat lately,” he says, mouth full.

“Dick meat,” Josh says back equally muffled. Of course, Faris should've seen that coming from a mile away. “The other red meat.”

“That's coming from _you_.” Faris swallows down the mass of burger in his mouth and says, “No, but I've been eating two steak bakes every day on my lunch break for a week now. D'you think that means anything?”

“Means you're finally putting on some baby fat,” Josh quips. He reaches out across the table to pinch what he can reach of Faris' belly, but just as soon as he gets there, his hand's slapped away. “Aw, come _on_.”

“Piss off,” Faris says. He grabs Josh by the wrist to push his hand off, and he reaches for another burger from the tray.

–

It doesn't get better, it gets worse. Faris doesn't mean that in a pseudo-philosophical way or in response to the empty advice given to gay kids over the internet, but one morning he wakes up with an overwhelming taste in the roof of his mouth.

He checks his phone first thing as he does, still half an hour until his alarm goes off. Might as well take his pills right away. The taste is stronger now, so strong that it couldn't be described as an aftertaste anymore, a nauseating bloody metallic tang, like it only gets normally when he's run a mile or when he's got a particularly nasty cough. His blood sings and rings inside his veins and in his ears, and Faris keeps on chugging down the water until the bottle's empty, but it doesn't make the taste go away in the least.

For the first time in probably forever, Faris doesn't shower straight away after he's gotten out of bed. He pulls on last night's shirt, a dreadfully ratty one he only wears to paint, and a pair of pants, lest he accidentally expose himself to his flatmate. In a way, it's like a hangover that doesn't seem too bad until he's gotten out of bed, because only when he's tugged his pants all the way up and halfway untangled his hair between his fingers, the itch becomes truly apparent.

Maybe it's the drowsiness fading away, _maybe_ , but when it hits, it hits and Faris can't help but hiss in irritation. He can't scratch, he knows, a burning red under his skin, deeper than a sunburn. Maybe he _should_ shower after all, maybe cold water would make it better, but the craving in his mouth dictates a different course of action.

Faris doesn't really keep food in the fridge, considering he never bothers with eating breakfast and only eats dinner about twice a week. Still, that's exactly where he goes first thing. The only things inside that aren't marked with a post-it reading _JAMES_ are a pint of milk that's probably gone off and an unopened pot of houmous. Faris goes straight for the cold cuts. He doesn't know what kind of meat it actually is, doesn't bother with reading the packaging before he rips it open, but it's nice and red, and so he shoves the first slice right into his mouth. He eats another, and then another, barely even tastes it before he's wolfing it down. Before he knows what's happened, he's finished the whole thing.

Well, maybe he'll finally put on that bit of baby fat like Josh had said. Even now, he feels he could eat more, so much more. Next thing, he goes for the ham, then a leftover half of a steak that's decidedly too well-done, and then there's no more meat left in the fridge.

Faris stuffs the evidence into the trash bin, the deli meat packaging and the tin foil the steak had been wrapped in. He puts the plate it was on into the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. If James asks, which he probably won't, Faris will just say that it all went off while he wasn’t looking.

He takes a second to use the letter magnets to spell out _BUY MEAT_ on the fridge, but the letter A has gone mysteriously missing and they don't have a second E. He substitutes an upside-down number three.

Time for a shower.

–

It's a Saturday and it's raining again, a steady, tinny drum against the roof. Faris loves the sound of rain, more than he hates the stink of moisture in the air before or _actual_ rainy weather. He loves watching the lines drawn onto the window pane by the individual drops of water, tracing the shapes that form.

Josh buys his weed from one of the Vee girls who works at the shop next door. Today he's got three grams and Rhys is holding a workshop downstairs, _Rope Bondage for Beginners_. They always insist they don’t want Josh in the shop when they’re doing events, so now he's sitting on one end of the ugly yellow sofa, Faris on the other, legs placed on top of each other in a structure resembling a pancake stack between them. Faris can't help but laugh at the simile.

“What's so funny?”

“Our legs remind me of pancakes. Stacked atop of each other.” Faris absent-mindedly rubs Josh's sweaty soles through his equally sweaty white socks, and he says, “Your feet smell really bad, actually.”

“Mm, 'cause I'm a man now.” Josh sticks his leg up in an attempt to shove his foot into Faris' face. “Manly.”

Faris merely pushes him away. “Knock it off, mate.” He grips onto Josh's ankles where they're crossed more firmly so as to keep him where he is. “No, but it's, I like it, I mean…”

Faris _hates_ that weed makes it even more difficult for him to find his words.

“I like the way your feet smell bad.”

Josh wrinkles his nose and makes an audible snorting sound. “Are you saying you get turned on by feet? 'cause I don't know if I can handle that.”

“No, it's… I don't think I have a _foot fetish_.” Faris pulls a face and rubs his thumb over Josh's big toe. “I think it's mainly, like, a body odour thing.”

Faris deeply regrets the fact that Josh's keeping the bong secured in his lap. He's about ready for another hit.

“Okay,” Josh says. “Just so long as you don’t want to fuck a foot.”

He pulls the pipe up to his mouth again. It's one of those novelty dick-shaped ones that only seem like a good idea for about ten minutes, bought on a whim, and he lights up to inhale. Josh always makes it look so unsettlingly easy when they do this, the way he sucks up all the smoke and keeps it in his lungs for ages before he puffs it back out in a big waft.

Faris _hates_ bongs, the sheer inconvenient size and the knowledge he's one unpredicted movement away from spilling murky warm water all over himself. Not to mention that he's always felt the actual smoking motion makes him look kind of ridiculous. He likes being stoned, though, more than anything because it dulls the itch under his skin, even if it's slowly coming back.

“Pass to your left,” he commands and helpfully stretches out one hand.

Josh hands him the bong and a pink BedMates branded lighter, and Faris slips his lips over the bellend mouthpiece and lights up. He knows fully well Josh's laughing at him, can literally _hear_ the bits of giggles slipping out, so maybe at least one of them thinks the penis bong was a good idea. Faris inhales deeper, lets his lungs be packed, until…

Until a fat cramping ache flares up inside his mouth, much like the cramps he's been getting all over lately, a new, sharp sensation, and he literally chokes on the smoke in shock. Faris rips the bong away from his mouth as soon as he's coughing, slaps his free hand onto the top of it to keep the excess smoke from escaping. All he can do in that second is hack out smoke and mucus onto the fabric of his shirt, vaguely aware that Josh's staring at him in horror.

“ _Mate_.” Josh's leaning as far forward as he can to offer Faris a tissue, and when Faris doesn’t accept, he actually gets up onto his knees to wipe the excess fluid from his chin and chest. “You okay?”

Faris stares into Josh's red eyes, well aware that his own are swimming in tears and very well aware he's obviously _not_ okay. He says, “Yeah. Inhaled it the wrong way.”

“ _Aww_.”

Faris snorts. The ache in his mouth really isn't that bad now that it's there, about as bad as a small cavity but in a different spot. He says, “Yeah. 'm okay now.”

He sucks what's left of the smoke out of the bong before he hands it back to Josh, lets it sit in his lungs for as long as he can manage. What else he likes about being stoned, probably even more than the fact that it soothes the itch in his skin, it's that it soothes the itch in his _brain_ , even if it makes his cravings only worse. He exhales.

“Josh.” Faris rubs Josh's ankle and patiently waits for him to look up from where he's scratching at a speck of dirt near the penis bong's nutsack. He starts, “D'you still have, you know…”

“Know what?”

“You know. Food that you don't eat anymore, like, from dinner.”

Josh scrunches up his nose. “Leftovers?”

“ _That's_ it. I forgot the word.” Faris experimentally stretches out his legs, and he says, “Well. Do you?”

Josh hums. “Spag bol. In the fridge.”

“That's perfect.”

The way Rhys' flat is set up, Faris doesn't have to walk far after he's picked himself off the ugly couch. Still, he spends a little too long hovering in the kitchen once he's opened the fridge. Being here is overwhelming enough as it is, the foreign smell of a flat that isn't the one he wakes up in every day, but looking into the fridge makes it so much worse. They've got bacon and chicken and raw minced meat, and Faris doesn't know which one smells the most tempting. He knows it'd be rude to simply eat _everything_ , even if the thought of it does let his tongue snake out to lick over his teeth absent-mindedly.

“Faz? You okay?”

Only Josh's voice coming from the sofa snaps him back out of his thoughts. Faris finally grabs the pot of spaghetti and shuts the fridge. He doesn't bother with heating it up, let alone grabbing a plate, only takes a spoon from the cutlery drawer before he settles back onto the couch.

“Got the munchies?”

“Most certainly.”

“That looks repulsive, “Josh says, and he shoves his feet into Faris' lap again.

Faris only hums around the spoon in response, since it's about as good as cold spag bol can get. On top of that, Rhys makes their Bolognese _delightfully_ meaty.

Josh imitates the hum at an exaggeratedly low pitch, and he grabs for one of the throw pillows scattered along the sofa's backrest and hugs it to his chest.

“So,” he says and gropes for the bong again where he'd left it on the coffee table. “Speaking of.”

“Speaking of what?” Faris asks back.

“Of my feet smelling like man, I don't know.”

Josh presses his heel into Faris' thigh, about an inch from where his cock is pressed into his trousers. They both know that Faris is fucking _useless_ during sex when he's smoked something, but still Faris can't be sure whether the gesture's meant to be flirtatious or not. Either way, he pushes Josh's foot away.

Josh takes yet another hit from the bong.

“Oi. My turn.”

Josh holds the smoke in his lungs for a good ten seconds before he actually replies.

“You've already got the munchies, you don't need any more.” Josh firmly nudges his foot back into the spot that Faris had just pushed it out from. He says, “And I'm the one who's paying it anyway.”

Still, he stretches out his arm with the bong and lighter, and Faris lights up and takes a deep drag.

“So, anyway. My ma called today because of my sister's eighteenth birthday.”

“And,” Faris says back as soon as he's exhaled.

“Well, it's next month, and she's expecting from me that I come, and there's like no way I can get out of it.” Josh brings one hand up to play with his puffy bottom lip, and he says, “I haven't even seen her in like, three years.”

Faris doesn't know what to say. The living room is painted a dreadful shade of red, with matching red curtains obscuring the windows and tinting the light a strange colour. He shoves more cold spaghetti into his mouth and it barely even tastes like meat.

“First time I came out to her was when I was moving out for uni, and she was like… I never really thought my family was homophobic growing up, you know? Like, they always taught me it's okay to be gay and stuff, but then I came out to my parents and my ma was like…” Josh contorts his voice into an exaggeratedly effeminate version of what he calls his _girl voice_ and says, “ _Evelyn, you_ can't _be a lesbian!_ ”

“You're not a lesbian, Josh.”

Josh scrunches up his face and asks, “ _And_?”

“I'm just… just wondering,” Faris starts. “Like, I get that this is going to be about your mum telling you can't be a _man_ , but you just said that you'd talked to her on the phone, and…” He pauses to figure out what words he should use next, because at some point, his mouth started working faster than his brain. Then he says, “How did she not _notice_?”

“I don't _know_.” Josh keeps on scrunching his face and circles the bong in one hand, as if he doesn't know what else to do with it, and says, “I mean, my voice isn't even that deep yet, so she probably just thought I had a cold or something.” He sinks down as deep as the awful upholstery will allow it and says, in his best whiny voice, “I don't wanna tell her.”

Faris doesn't feel he can do much more other than rub Josh's feet at that moment.

“You should come with.”

“What?”

“To my sister's birthday party. I'm serious.” Josh hugs the bong tighter to his chest and says, “I'll lose my fucking mind if I have to spend five hours around my family by myself.” When Faris doesn't say anything, he adds, “It's like, nothing fancy, it's just a barbecue in our back garden. So you don't have to dress up again.”

Faris only shrugs and makes a non-committal noise. “Maybe. Give me the bong again.”

Josh does. What he'd packed into the bowl is mostly smoked up but Faris figures it's still good for two hits or so. He lights up and sucks the smoke deep into his lungs, and he counts to five, five times, before he exhales. Right now, all he wants to do is not think and not itch and not worry about Josh's shitty family. At this point, he can deal with the constant ache in his mouth, too.

“You're lucky, you know that,” he says finally, when he's precariously placed the pipe between Josh's feet.

Josh giggles. “Looks like I'm giving him a foot job.”

“With your family situation.”

Josh doesn't seem to listen to him. “Him,” he repeats and carefully rubs one foot up the side of the pipe's shaft. “I've named him William, Willy for short.”

“What?” Faris asks. Just as soon, his brain jumps back to the penis bong in his lap, which indeed appears to be getting a top-quality foot job from Josh. “Yeah, yeah.”

Josh makes a cut-off sound that sounds suspiciously like that weird noise happy babies make. But really, there's only a few superficial differences between Josh and a baby.

“I mean… if I told my family that I'm bisexual and they just said _no, you're not_ , I'd be grateful. I'm not sure if my dad would still talk to me at all.” Faris hates weed for making him talkative. He strokes the stupid willy bong, and he says, “My whole Muslim side of the family, they'd just pretend I don't exist.”

“It's not a competition.”

“I'm not… not saying that it is. Just saying.”

Josh tilts his messy head in a vague gesture. “Why'd they want to do that? I always thought your family wasn't Muslim.”

Faris huffs out a sigh at the realisation he's having _that_ conversation again. “ _I'm_ not Muslim,” he says. “My dad's not that religious anymore, but most of my other family is.” He adds, “I don't really see them that much anymore, like you don't really see your mum, but… they're still my family, you know?”

To reiterate: Faris _hates_ weed. His mouth is cottony and he doesn't know whether he should drink some water or eat another penny to remedy it.

Josh says, “Yeah, I guess,” and then says, “Give me the dong again.”

“Dong,” Faris repeats.

“That's what I said.”

Faris takes the dong – bong – to pass it over to Josh.

“Cheers.”

Josh examines the bowl, carefully pokes a finger into it, and he grabs for the lighter when Faris reaches it out to him as well. He lights up one last time, and Faris counts to five six times before Josh exhales the smoke back out. His mouth contorts into a grimace when he attempts to blow smoke rings.

“I'm thinking I should get a prescription for this stuff when it becomes legal,” Josh says when he's precariously placed the bong on the coffee table next to Rhys' stack of magazines and the now empty pot of spaghetti. “Like, if I just tell them I have trouble sleeping at night and stuff.”

“You've got trouble sleeping at night 'cause you stay up and read Reddit and My Chemical Romance fanfiction until four AM, you knob,” Faris points out.

He digs his phone out from his pocket to type _medical cannabis_ into Google and ignores that Josh's sticking his tongue out from across the couch.

“And I'm… pretty sure it's already legal.” He taps on the Wikipedia article just to make sure, skims it for about five seconds, and adds, “But National Health doesn't cover it most of the time. It's like four hundred quid for each prescription.”

Josh makes a fart noise with his lips and then says, “I'm thirsty.”

“Get something to drink, then.”

Josh pulls a face like Faris has just asked him to do the impossible, but to be fair, Faris doesn't feel it's much more likely that _he'll_ be the one to get up and grab them something to drink.

“ _You_ should get the medical cannabis prescription,” Josh says, then. “For your whole brain problems thing, you know. I'm sure that's better than a bunch of pills that could probably kill you. Probably cheaper in the long run, too.”

Faris simply shrugs.

“I'm just _saying_ ,” Josh says, and he drawls the last word out in that irritating low-pitched monotone.

Faris says, “Piss off.”

His mouth is too cottony, and even more so with the ache throbbing through it. Maybe he should really get up and grab them something to drink.

“Move.”

He takes too long to pick himself off the _stupid ugly poorly fucking designed_ sofa, even after Josh's retracted his feet. The drag of the high only makes his limbs feel even longer, too lazy and lifeless like they've been replaced by a bunch of cold spaghettis. Faris has to brace himself on the exaggeratedly high arm rest for a second.

“Bring me a Sprite back, will you?”

Before Faris can bite something back, one of those cramps sneaks up on him once again. His knees buckle when every single muscle in his body decides to lock up at the same time, but luckily the couch's still there to keep him from outright dropping to the floor.

“Cramps?” Josh asks.

“Cramp.”

Josh doesn't stop cackling until after Faris has come back from the fridge.

–

Faris hates the sun, always has. He'll chalk it up to a childhood with too much time spent inside drawing and not enough time spent playing outside. _Yes_ , he's heard every joke related to that subject that's ever been made. It's a beautiful twenty-nine-degrees day in June, he's got half the day off, and Faris is _pissed off_ and squinting through his cheap Camden Market sunnies.

He says as much. “I hate the fucking sun.”

Rhys only laughs at him from the driver's seat.

Josh's got half the day off today, too, 'cause he's got an appointment at the gender clinic, but Faris had decided to stop by at BedMates after his shift either way. He's realising that might have been a mistake, after Rhys had enlisted him to accompany them to the post office because they need a big strong man to help them with all those parcels that need sending out. That's entirely their words, not his.

“Yeah, I do.”

Rhys drives a silver Vauxhall with a big boot and squishy white leather seats and a paisley-patterned air freshener, and with the BedMates logo emblazoned on the bonnet in bright BedMates pink. Faris hates car rides in general, and he hates this ridiculous car in particular and the obscure station Rhys has the radio tuned to, although he does appreciate being able to put the seat back as far as it'll go and stretch his legs out for once.

“How's Nick these days?” Rhys asks.

“You know. Still pretentious and still a wanker.” Faris shuts his eyes, but the sunlight still burns through his lids, and besides, he gets carsick when he doesn't pay attention to the road.

Rhys giggles. They've wholeheartedly embraced the hellish temperature, wearing a translucent patterned shirt and some strappy sandals, an equally strappy girlie top underneath the first shirt and fucking _jean shorts_ , and they somehow look fantastic in that getup. Faris would rather shoot himself than wear shorts in public.

“Did I ever tell you I hooked up with him once?”

“You didn't.”

Faris knew that Rhys and Nick know each other from the few times they'd done sets together back when Nick was still trying to be a DJ, through the gay club scene in general. But he'd never guessed that Nick would be Rhys' type, or the other way around, for that matter.

“It was, like… so many years ago, when he'd just graduated from uni.” Rhys signals to turn a corner and says, “He was really into girly boys back then, I mainly think it's really funny now.”

Faris rumbles out a noise. He only realises now he's got no idea how old Nick is, since he always assumed he had to be even older than Rhys.

“So now I'm gonna have the mental image of you shagging my unbearable boss I see more or less every day of the week,” he says. “Lovely.”

Rhys lets out a cracking little cackle that makes them sound suspiciously like Josh. “How much do you actually work now?”

“Forty-five-hour week,” Faris says. It doesn't sound that bad until he's actually said it out loud. He stretches out his one hand to count on his fingers. “I work five seven-hour shifts between Monday and Saturday. The full Sunday, eleven to five, and one random four-hour shift once a week.”

Rhys says, “Jesus.”

“I mean, it sounds a lot worse if I just say it like that. I get an hour off for lunch, too.”

Rhys only shakes their head. “Well. You're always welcome to join the BedMates team.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Faris experimentally reclines his seat and says, up at the grey car interior ceiling, “You're always saying that.”

“But I really _mean_ it, I mean, you'd take a lot of workload off me and Haz, too. And I'd pay you just as much for less hours, I could probably pay you more, I'm serious.”

“That's nice, Rhys.” Faris is tired of this conversation over again and tired of the awful _sun_ that's still finding its way past his shades even after he's adjusted his seat. “I'm not really sure I'm comfortable working with plastic dicks all around me.”

Rhys only laughs once again. “Okay. Just keep it in mind.”

“Mm.”

The air freshener Rhys uses is some awful mishmash of every flower known to man with a distinct chemical note to it, a weird clash to the perfume they're wearing themself. Faris wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

“Can you open the window?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The real reason Faris doesn't spend a lot of time around Rhys by themself, leaving aside the age difference of almost ten years and that incident last year, it's their irritatingly chirpy demeanour, the incredibly bright smile they flash when they reach to press the button on the console.

“By the way,” they start.

“Yeah?”

“I don't know if Josh's told you about this yet, but we were going to go out for dinner on Saturday, me and Joe and Haz and him, do you want to come along?”

“What kind of dinner?”

“We were thinking Italian.”

“Maybe,” Faris says. At least, it'd be nice to eat some real meat that cost more than two quid for once in awhile. “I'll think it over.”

“Cool,” Rhys chirps.

The car comes to a brake, and Faris only then realises they've already reached BedMates again.

“D'you want to come back in for tea?”

“Yeah, sure.” Faris cracks open the door only for a waft of brutally hot air to come in and suffocate him. “But maybe some ice water instead.”

He laughs as he watches Rhys peel their thighs off the upholstery.


	3. kindred

Faris texts Josh to come grocery shopping with him after he wakes up one morning and drearily realises that he'd somehow forgotten to buy meat _again_ , and this time James doesn't have anything good in the fridge either. He eats the entire pot of houmous instead, with the crisps he bought to make it look like he eats normal food too, as well as the bread and the baked beans and half of the fruit bowl. Not that any of it actually fills him up.

They meet outside BedMates as soon as Faris has finished his shift. Somehow it's still as inhumanly hot as it was when he went to get his steak bake during his lunch break, only one today. Josh's waiting outside, sat on the ground in front of the display window with a fag in hand, in his stupid emo band t-shirt and another pair of cut-off shorts. Actually, Faris is pretty sure he's the only one in the entire city who _isn't_ wearing shorts today.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Josh says back, and he stretches out his free hand like he expects Faris to pull him up.

Despite himself, Faris does, and they start walking up the street.

“You're getting fat.”

“I'm not _fat_ ,” Josh says back. “Not my fault you've been the same weight since you were like twelve.”

Faris only leans down and pinches his conveniently exposed thigh to make him squeak. “Oi.”

“ _Oi_ yourself.” Josh pokes Faris in the ribs before linking their arms. “Nice shades, by the way.”

“Like you're one to talk.”

Faris remembers Josh's ill-advised Willy Wonka sunglasses from last year all too well.

“I was _serious_.” Josh snorts. “So. Where'd you want to go? Don't say Waitrose.”

“Waitrose,” Faris says back purely on reflex. “I don't know. Tesco? There's a big one not far away, I think.”

“You _think_.”

“I don't really go grocery shopping, I mainly just eat at Greggs.”

“It's a miracle I'm the fat one, TBH,” Josh says, spelling the individual letters out.

“You're the worst.”

The big Tesco's really not _that_ far away, about a twenty-minute walk. Still, Faris is considering that maybe they should've agreed to meet up by his bus stop instead, which would have been a lot closer. They're halfway there at most when he has to motion for Josh to stop.

“Wait.”

“You okay?”

“It's hot.”

Once again, it's one of those days where the pavement radiates off heat waves and the air flickers above the ground with the ever-present stink of garbage and exhaust gas. Faris' legs feel like they're being roasted in their skin-tight jeans. He pulls off his backpack to fish out the half-empty water bottle he's still got left from work before he hands it over to Josh.

“Here. Hold my bag.”

The water's gone lukewarm with no air conditioning in the back room, and still Faris can't hold back the groan when he pours it over his head and all the way down his torso. The woman pushing a stroller past them on the pavement shoots him a look, and Josh laughs.

“Maybe if you didn't dress like this in the middle of the heat wave.”

“I'm an artist,” Faris simply says and wrings out the bottom of his shirt. He's still hot, hotter than he feels he should be, but it's probably just the meds racketing up his body temperature. “I was born to suffer.”

“You're a miserable old goth is what you are.”

“At least I'm not a scene kid.”

“Scene's a phase,” Josh points out. “Emo is for life.”

Faris only snorts. Now that they're walking again, he realises he should've thought this through properly, because not only is he still warm, now he's got the wet shirt clinging to his skin, too.

“This was a terrible idea.”

He pulls his shirt up and over his head, and Josh whistles with approval.

“You almost make me want to put my shirt back on out of spite.”

Josh blows a raspberry at him. “Come back here.”

Faris links his arm with Josh's once again in accordance. It's almost indecently gay.

“Need to keep you close to make sure you don't collapse of sunstroke.”

“How nice of you.”

“I know,” Josh says back, and his free hand reaches up to poke Faris in the nipple. “You're very nice.”

Faris doesn't even bother with swatting him away. “Keep your grabby hands off me.”

Josh snorts out yet another laugh. “So. What are we buying today?”

Faris only shrugs.

“Everything,” Josh suggests.

“More or less. I ate most of my food this morning.” He takes a second to remember the grocery list he'd forgotten to actually write down, and he says, “I need meat. And bread and crisps and fruit and another pot of houmous.”

“How about a vegetable or two?”

“I'll think about it.” Faris definitely won't think about it.

–

Rhys booked them a table for five at a posh Italian restaurant in Covent Garden, seven o'clock Saturday night. It's more than enough time for Faris to go home from work and shower and change, but he still makes a point of showing up late. Faris hates anything that forces him to take the bus into the inner city, and he hates _being_ in the city even more.

He gets off at Piccadilly Circus, which is swimming with flocks of tourists and their reek of skin and sweat. His phone informs him that it's a bit after seven, and from here it's still a good ten-minute walk to the restaurant. He opens his messages to inform the group chat he'll come a little later.

_All right just don't be too long x_ , the reply from Rhys comes back almost immediately.

Harry writes, _we'll order a round of garlic bread already if that's OK._

It's a cloudy day at least, even if the air feels sweaty with more than just the masses of bodies, but Faris still wears his shades against the bleak grey sky. He checks the address Rhys had given him on Google Maps one more time as he shoulders his way through the crowds, which he supposes is the one advantage of being inhumanly tall.

There's a ruckus coming far-off from Trafalgar Square when he crosses Charing Cross Road where the crowds are beginning to thin out, chanting from too far away for him to make out any words. Another anti-austerity protest is on today, apparently, but Faris had completely forgotten about that until now.

The restaurant Rhys had picked out is almost painfully middle-class. Packed with a crowd that's less tourists and more thirty-something Londoners dressed in business casual and sipping cocktails, it’s probably the most _Rhys_ choice of restaurant they could have made. Faris tells the girl greeting him at the entrance that his friends had booked a table, gives her Rhys' last name, and she motions for him to follow.

“You might want to take your sunglasses off,” she tells him. One look at the white walls and indirect-but-distinctly-too-bright lighting tells Faris that he's _not_ going to take his sunglasses off.

Their table is located in a booth near the back of the restaurant, a vacant seat in the corner just where he likes to sit. Rhys rises from their chair for a hug, but Faris only bothers with a fist bump and a pinch of the cheek for Harry and Josh, respectively. As he takes his seat, he waves at Rhys' twinky boyfriend, who gapes at him with big baby blue eyes.

“Faris,” Rhys says, then. “This is Joe.”

“Hello,” Twinky Boyfriend says. _Joe_ says. Now they've met each other, now Faris has to remember it.

“Hi.” Faris reaches out across the table to actually shake hands, and he says, “I'm Faris. Pleasure to meet you.”

Joe has exceptionally soft twinky hands.

“It's nice to meet you too, Faris.” The way he says it, with his nasal little voice, he makes it sound like _Ferris_. “So, what do you do?”

“Well, I've got an art degree, but I work in retail.”

Joe laughs. He's got the same irritatingly chirpy giggle that Rhys does. “I'm doing my second year in my illustration degree right now.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to act as a cautionary example.”

Faris gives Joe a good once-over again as he says it. He looks even more twinky in real life than he did in his Grindr profile picture, rosy soft cheeks that most certainly never touched a razor and big puppy eyes.

“How old are you, actually?”

“I'm twenty.”

“Oh,” Faris says back, even if it should've been obvious given what he knows about Joe. He doesn't know what else to say, other than _you look even younger than the boys Rhys usually hooks up with_ , which would be rude. So he simply adds, “I'm twenty-two.”

“Faris?” Harry asks then and thankfully prevents any awkward small talk that no-doubt would have followed. “D'you want any garlic bread?”

“Yeah, cheers.”

She passes the basket over to let him take a slice, but as soon as Faris has lifted it up to his face, the reek of it bites him in the nose and his eyes tear up even behind the lenses. _Right_.

“Actually, no, I'm good. Does anyone want this?”

Josh snatches the bread from his hand as soon as he's said it.

A waitress brings them the menu to order starters and drinks. Faris doesn't remember what they all talk about while they wait, or while they actually eat, for that matter. He does bully Josh into giving him half his shrimps, but other than that he barely even tastes the salad he'd ordered.

When it's time for them to order the main course, Faris skims the menu once before he asks their waitress, “What would you say is the meatiest dish you can recommend to me?” He can see her face crack for a split second before she replies, and he only barely contains the laugh.

“Well, Sir,” she says in the standard talking-to-customers voice, “If you want meat, I'd recommend the sirloin steak.”

“Sirloin steak, very well, I'll have that,” Faris repeats. “Make it rare. Extra rare. Leave it bloody.”

This place is halal, completely blood-free, they all are, but Faris doesn’t give much thought to that. The waitress doesn’t correct him. He nods towards Harry to let her know it's her turn to order, when from his other side, Josh shoves his phone at him under the table.

It's opened to the notes app, and it reads, _p sure Joe thinks your on drugs_.

Faris grabs the phone out of Josh's hand and writes below, _good_.

–

            They only leave the restaurant when it's an hour to closing time and Rhys insisted on buying all of them three rounds of drinks, and outside is already getting dark. The clouds finally broke open at some point, and Covent Garden is washed empty and shiny with the street lights reflected by the puddles.

“You never realise how nice this place is underneath all the tourists,” Faris says, more to himself than anything else.

“What?” Rhys asks back.

“Nothing.”

They walk back to the nearest bus stop that doesn't require them to brave Leicester Square, Rhys and Joe up in front, hands linked firmly, then Josh and Harry with Faris trailing at the back. The rain still hangs in the air with its bullshit humidity smell. Faris lights a fag and undoes the first button of his shirt. He feels _ridiculously_ overdressed in the button-up shirt he'd bothered with putting on considering Josh's wearing his stupid blazer with a t-shirt again, and especially considering Joe's _also_ wearing a blazer with a t-shirt underneath.

“Hey, can I bum one?” Josh asks.

Faris passes his fags with the Zippo over wordlessly.

“Cheers.”

Josh puffs out a big smoke ring, presumably under the assumption that it makes him look cool and not like an overgrown puffer fish. He asks, “Just wondering. D'you mind if I come back to yours tonight?”

It takes a second for the words to get through to Faris' brain, and he's only even had those three drinks. It's the meds, probably, but that’s not enough for him to actually quit drinking.

“Who, me?”

“No, _Harry_. Berk.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

“You're leaving me alone with those horny devils?” Harry asks.

“Come on, Haz,” Josh says with his stupid pout. “No need to be _mean_.”

Faris honestly doubts that Rhys and Joe can even hear them, considering they've drifted further ahead of the rest of them.

Harry laughs. “Be glad you don't live in our house, Faris.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't want to live with Josh either.”

–

It feels completely illicit to bring Josh back to his room when his flatmate is also there, even if it's technically not the first time. Faris takes his shoes off at the door and doesn't bother with turning the light on when he waves Josh in. Considering the distant sound of bedsprings squeaking that's coming through the thin walls, he's not sure if he should have even bothered. As soon as they’re in his room and he’s turned the light on, Josh spreads himself out on the bed.

“Wait, did you want tea or anything?” Faris asks.

“Just a bottle of water, I guess.” Josh critically examines the boxes of pills on Faris' bedside and then says, “Your room's so nice, you even have a window.”

“Probably 'cause I've got a real room that didn't used to be a storage space?”

“Laundry room,” Josh corrects.

“Like that's any better,” Faris says back, but he slips back out the door and to the kitchen for a water anyway.

He takes longer than he should to remember where he'd put the six-pack of Highland Spring, so of course, by the time he gets back to his room, Josh's gotten undressed save for his pants and socks. He's dumped all his clothes onto Faris' desk chair, too.

“Hey.”

“I'm not even gonna pretend I'm surprised that you only wanted sex out of this,” Faris chides. He's only half joking.

Right now, he's got a thirty-quid steak, half a dozen shrimps and various salad vegetables lying heavy in his belly, and the main thing he wants to do is _sleep_. The very last thing he wants to do, for that matter, is physical activity, especially not when he knows James is shagging a bird the next room over.

“I just wanted to get comfy,” Josh insists and pouts some more. “Come to bed, Honey.”

“ _Honey_ ,” Faris repeats.

“Not you. Just my favourite part of you.”

“You're calling my penis _Honey_ now,” Faris says once again in disbelief.

He has to take his stupid shirt off either way, though, so he strips all the way down to his socks. After brief consideration, he pulls those off too, since he's got somewhat more class than Josh.

It's not enough class to keep him from waggling his bell end at Josh and saying, “I've got some honey right here for you,” however.

He's too drunk to already be hard, but he feels like it works pretty well with a limp dick, too. Josh cackles in response and scoots over for Faris to crawl into bed as well.

“Hey,” Faris says.

He nuzzles into Josh's neck to take a good whiff of him first thing, and his problem is that he can't ever say no to Josh, really. Or maybe it's Josh's ability to be effortlessly sexy in spite of his overall ridiculous demeanour, or the way he _smells_. He took a shower earlier that day; his hair was still damp when Faris showed up at the restaurant, so he's some lemony shampoo and that expensive conditioner he uses and his stupid Lynx shower gel that matches the deodorant. The sharp sting of alcohol clings to his skin, and an afternote of that hellish garlic. But beneath that, there's still the very distinct _Josh_ smell, and Faris lets one hand slip onto Josh's soft chest.

Josh hums, which very quickly turns into a giggle when Faris keeps nuzzling his sensitive parts. “Your flatmate's insistent humping’s not really a turn-on, you know?”

“I'm surprised he's even home, TBH,” Faris says back. In all fairness, he feels like having to listen to Rhys and Joe and their weird sex noises would be _much_ more of a turn-off.

“Did you just say _TBH_ out loud?”

He did indeed. “It's 'cause you're a bad influence.”

Faris leans up to snog Josh before he can say anything stupid, just a quick open-mouthed kiss because Josh's got _awful_ garlic breath.

“Eww,” Josh says as soon as they've pulled apart, and he makes a face.

“I'm not the one who's got bad breath out of us,” Faris says back.

He moves to straddle Josh's leg so he can rut against it to hardness, and he slips one hand into Josh's pants to test how wet he already is.

“We've to do this in your room more often,” Josh says when Faris has shuffled down the mattress to push his face into Josh's slit and inhale him. “Your bed's way bigger.”

Faris' laugh in response comes out muffled.

Josh insists he wants to be on his belly when they _actually_ fuck, two pillows underneath him for support. Faris only realises _how_ tipsy the drinks have made him when he's kneeling behind Josh and rubbing his cock over his slit without ever having it slip in properly.

“Ah, fuck.”

“Cramp?”

“No, this is like…” Faris struggles to come up with an appropriate comparison. “You know those weird silver tinfoil drink pouches.”

“Capri Suns?”

“It's like trying to stick your dick into the Capri Sun pouch.”

Josh cackles. Faris lets his cockhead slip in once again, and this time he's got a good lead because he's _finally_ just-the-tip tip deep in Josh's front hole.

“You want me to get on top if you can’t get it in?”

“No, I've… I've got it now.”

He slides in deeper so he can align his chest with Josh's back, and he hums. On second thought, he’s pretty sure that was supposed to be a joke at his dick’s expense, but to be fair, Josh loves Faris’ dick _too much_ for that to be in any way believable.

Josh laughs at him, probably for not getting the joke.

“Feel good?”

“Mm. Just remember I'm not showering at your flat, so don't cum in me, or on me.”

Faris laughs. He starts to gently move in and out, just enough so his balls slap against Josh with every inward thrust but not enough to actually make the bed creak.

“Just pull out when you have to and do it in the bin.”

“I'll do it on the sheets, then.”

Josh bites the pillow to muffle his giggles. “Okay.”

Faris picks up the pace a bit, which punches the first groan out from Josh, and then some more after that. He listens to the creaking mattress springs and wonders how hard he has to pound Josh to _really_ annoy his flatmate who's probably still at it considering there's more creaks coming through the wall, slightly off-tempo.

“You mind if I go faster to make the bed slam the wall?”

Josh breathlessly makes a noise of affirmation. “I'll do a fake screaming orgasm when I cum, if that helps.”

“Great.”

Faris licks Josh's sweaty neck one last time before he moves to straighten out his back and reposition his legs for the ideal pounding position, and suddenly…

“Ah, oh, _fuck_.”

Faris supports his full weight on Josh's back to keep from collapsing on top of him.

“Cramp?”

“Cramp.”

–

The next morning, Faris wakes up to the first sunbeams shining in through his blinds, with the knowledge that he doesn't have to be at work until 11 and a naked warm body in his arms. He's unsurprisingly not hungover, and moreover, he's unsurprisingly not used to this situation. Josh's a snorer, tiny, squeaking snores that remind Faris more of a cat than a person. Now that he's well-fucked and sweaty he smells even more delectable than normally, and so Faris nuzzles his neck until he begins to stir.

“What's going on?” Josh asks, muffled by sleep.

“Good morning,” Faris drawls out right into his ear.

“What time's it?”

“I don't know. Six?”

“Gross.”

“'s not gross. It's _nice_ ,” Faris insists. He keeps on nuzzling that one spot, the _pheromone_ spot, or whatever it is that causes that little stretch of skin to smell better than the rest of Josh. “Cuddling for once in awhile.”

“You could've cuddled me in my _sleep_.”

Faris decides to ignore that argument. “I'd always thought you'd be a big spoon type of person. I'm more of a little spoon myself.”

“We could turn around if you like. I'm versatile.”

“No, no, it's nice like this.” Which it is. “Means I get to do this.”

Faris brings one hand that he'd had around Josh's waist down to between his legs to rub, and Josh _purrs_. That's about the only way to describe it.

“You're hard.”

“Morning wood. Yeah.” Faris hadn't even realised that was there, really. “What d'you want to do about it?”

Josh hums and yields into Faris' touch. “I'd really like to snog, actually.”

“Would you?”

“I'm in the mood.”

“Let's do it.”

They twist in the sheets until Josh's on his back with his fucked-out hair spread out on the more fucked-out pillow so Faris can straddle his leg once again. His awful breath's gotten worse through the night, Faris only realises now that they're face to face.

 “Wait.”  He grabs his pills and bottle of water from the bedside and says, “Before I forget.” Next, he offers the fresh bottle to Josh. “You should drink something, too.”

“Cheers.”

Josh ends up spilling more than what he drinks onto his face and neck, and Faris laughs at him.

“Refreshment on a warm morning,” he simply says. “Snogging time now.”

“Yeah.”

This time's distinctly different from the last time Faris snogged Josh in his bed, which, come to think of it, was also his first time snogging Josh. He knows what he wants this time, and that’s Josh's mouth and the heat that forms between them, the heat that comes from all the parts of Josh that are soft and from his slit, too. It's languid and slow and sleepy, but really, he wants to kiss more than anything else.

It's hours until they fuck, or at least that's how it feels. Faris' seven-o'clock alarm that he'd forgotten to turn off starts blaring just as he's pushed inside Josh. Josh's on his back this time, one of the pillows under his arse since Faris has to change the bedding as it is. The room glows bright with sunlight from outside, so achingly bright Faris has to squeeze his eyes shut, and it's wonderful in the most painful way.

They don't kiss anymore, but Josh wraps his arms around Faris and scratches down his back where the skin is perpetually itched raw, and Faris buries his face in Josh's cloud of hair to hide his watery eyes. When he comes, in the end, he does it on Josh's belly to wipe it off with the sheets right after.

“Well,” Faris says, after the customary period where they both catch their breaths and let themselves stick together with sweat is over. “I've to go shower now,” he adds and unceremoniously rolls off of Josh.

“Go shower.”

Faris wipes the worst of the sweat from his face, and immediately after realises he'd used the same section of sheet that he just wiped away the jizz with. He likes to think he masks the realisation well, though.

“D'you want to eat breakfast after?”

“Sounds great.”

Josh gets up at the same time that Faris does, if only to pull the ratty paint shirt from his desk and put it on himself, along with his pants.

“You should let me strip the bed first before you lie back down.”

“Right. Right.”

Faris _definitely_ didn't expect for his flatmate to already be awake when he walks into the kitchen with Josh trailing behind. Granted, he'd taken his time in the shower, since the heat had already started to seep into the building again with the sun, and also because he ended up having two separate cramps.

Faris' flatmate is called James. He's straight, what Rhys refers to as _obviously_ straight, and he's got a fancy DSLR camera and an office job and shops at M &S, and he spends his weekends picking up birds or going places with his equally straight friends. Faris talks to him about twice a week, plus the time every month they pay rent to their landlord.

James looks up from his weird healthy cereal with what's clearly a dubious look on his face, despite the dim filter of Faris' sunglasses that he'd wisely chosen to put on as soon as he got out of the shower.

“Bad hangover?”

“Not really,” Faris says. He immediately turns toward the fridge to open a thing of cold cuts, and he rolls one slice up to stick it in his mouth. When he sits down at the table, he finally says, “My eyes are kind of fucked up right now.”

From where he's taking the seat next to Faris, Josh says, “Hi, I'm Josh. And I'm a boy.”

“James.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Josh says, and he rests his chin in his hands to smush his own face.

“Where's your date from last night?” Faris asks in a poor attempt to make small talk. “Went home already?”

“She left at around twelve last night,” James replies in a tone that says he's just as in the mood for small talk as Faris is. “Had to work really early.”

Josh makes an indefinable snorting sound. “Where'd you meet her?”

“Tinder.”

“Tinder's garbage.” Josh points his first two fingers at Faris and says, “Me and him met in a book shop randomly, and we have lots of sex.”

The way he says it is so incredibly nonchalant that Faris takes a moment to even register it. He silently shoves another slice of salami into his mouth.

“So, you know, maybe you should try that sometime.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

James picks up his near-empty bowl of cereal to carry it over to the sink. He says, “Well. It was nice to meet you, but I've got things to do.”

“Okay,” Josh chirps back. “See you around sometime.”

For a few seconds after James has left the room, it stays quiet between them. Josh's got a look on his face that makes it obvious he's only barely biting back the laughter.

Then Faris says, “So,” and he picks a third slice out from the plastic packaging. “You're now a member of the very exclusive club of people who've met my flatmate.”

That's when Josh actually lets out that laugh, although he gets himself back together quickly enough. “He looked _so_ uncomfortable. Even before I said to him we were having sex.”

Faris laughs along. “Yeah, he's a bit of a twat.”

Josh reaches out to nab one of the cold cuts, and Faris lets him. “Why d'you live with him?”

“Convenience, I guess. And Craigslist.”

“Craigslist,” Josh repeats. “The Tinder of flatmates.”

“Yeah. We don't really bother each other normally.” Faris shoves two more slices of cold cuts into his mouth and hums. “How about that breakfast?”

“Just so long as you don't make me eat cold cuts with nothing else. Or gross adult cereal,” Josh says, and he picks at a fleck of dirt on the tabletop.

“Yeah. I could make French toast, I guess.”

Faris doesn't know why that's the first breakfast food that comes to his mind. Even if he does sort of know how to make French toast, and even if it's still over an hour until he has to get the bus to work. What he does, after Josh gives him the puppy eyes, is he puts the kettle on, and he makes fucking _French toast_.

There's no syrup in the house and no cinnamon, either, so he substitutes the cinnamon with drinking chocolate powder. He chops up an apple and two bananas to go with it and garnishes the whole pile of toast and fruit with a square of butter and a leftover piece of Mint Aero.

“Sorry if this tastes completely like shit. I'll make you eggs and beans on toast or whatever.”

Josh uses the side of his fork to carefully lob off a corner of one slice of bread. He says, “No, no. It's fine.”

What Faris does then is he goes back to what's left of his cold cuts, and he watches Josh eat in silence. Maybe it's the lighting or maybe it's that he's no longer glowing with sex, but he seems much blearier now, washed out from last night. It's strange the way the entire situation is strange, too intimate for what they have and too tender.

Faris feels the dull ache inside his mouth and the not-so-dull ache all inside his veins that's all nothing compared to how insistently his heart is beating up in his throat for some reason. Until the meat's gone and Josh asks if he wants some of the toast, too, and it really is, _fine_.

–

_thanx again 4 making me breakfast this morning you big gay burd_ , comes a text when Faris is sitting on the curb outside his Greggs of trust, digging into the steak bake he'd bought as soon as his shift was finished.

He has to squint to be able to read it, between his dark lenses and the stinging sun. Before he texts back, he takes a second to wipe the grease off his fingers with the fabric of his jeans. _Dont mention it._

_thanks 4 never making me breakfast ever_ , Josh sends almost immediately. A split second later, another text buzzes onto the screen. It's one of the heart emojis, the pink one with the arrow in.

_Gross._ Faris considers adding the broken-heart emoji, but decides against it.

Of course, Josh, being Josh, immediately corrects himself by texting the same heart emoji with several of the aubergine ones following it.

_Ha ha ha_

_cum over?_ In the text after that, Josh adds, _i already miss yr dick lets shag on my floor_

Faris takes a big bite from his steak bake and pretends to contemplate. He's had three cramps over the course of his shift today, legs still pulsing in his jeans, and he writes, _only if you go on top_.

_deal. bring me a sausage roll_

–

Out of the many things Faris hates, asides from the sun, Brussel sprouts, loud noises, and most people in general, gay pride is near the top of the list.

Well, that's not entirely fair to say. Faris has heard at least five educational rants about the historical significance of pride week and Stonewall Inn coming from Rhys in the year-and-a-half that he's known them, so he wouldn't put himself on the level of those people who boycott anything with a rainbow colour scheme or picket pride parades. Really, his one issue with pride is that it unites several of the other things he cannot stand. Besides, the rainbow flags are just so incredibly _gaudy_.

Reasonably enough, Faris isn't pleased when he comes into BedMates after his shift on Wednesday only to immediately be bombarded by Rhys asking for his help.

“You're just right,” they chirp as soon as they've released Faris from their hug. “You see, I need two big strong men to hang the big rainbow flag outside down the façade of the building, but Josh's only so much help, it's so good you're here now.”

Rhys, befitting their cheerful demeanour and their general appreciation of all things gay and noisy, _loves_ pride. They've had rainbow-striped bunting hung up in the BedMates display window since the beginning of the month, and Josh told Faris that they've specifically instructed him to greet all customers with “Happy Pride.” Faris assumes they'll only become more enthusiastic now that the London Pride celebrations have actually started.

He can only ask, “Why d'you keep calling me that?”

“What?”

“A big strong man. Why are you saying that?”

“You're very big.” Rhys beams a smile. “And you're putting on muscle,” they add, and their index finger pokes Faris' biceps.

Faris only shrugs.

“The flag's upstairs. Go fetch Josh,” Rhys instructs in their best bossy voice, and they pat Faris on the shoulder. Faris supposes the gesture would come off as patronising if he wasn’t half a foot taller than them.

Faris finds Josh shelving a handful of books on rope bondage, taps him on the back of the neck, and they're good to go.

“Rhys is saying I've been putting on muscle,” Faris says when they're walking up the stairs to the flat.

“They're right,” Josh says back from somewhere behind him. “You're starting to get buff.”

Faris repeats, “Am I?”

“Yeah, you are.”

Faris absent-mindedly flexes his biceps, but he has to admit that he's got more definition there than he remembers.

“You need to stop, though. I don't fuck buff guys.”

Faris, despite himself, blows an audible raspberry.

They find the flag on the sofa, and it really is big, more of a banner than a regular flag.

“I haven't even worked out or anything,” Faris says to himself.

“Maybe it's your cramps.”

“Maybe. Muscle tension.”

Faris flexes his arm once again as he picks up one end of the flag. “How do we work this?”

“I think it's long enough to fit the entire front of the house.” Josh wrinkles his nose. “Custom made. We had a smaller one last year that came with those nails you could fix to the outside wall.”

Faris shrugs. “You're the handyman here.”

Josh cackles.

It turns out there's a plastic packet of nail-things with eyelets on one end and a length of rope to fit the O-rings on the flag lying on the kitchen counter. Faris sceptically picks one nail up to inspect it.

“This is weird.”

“Yeah, it is.” Josh grabs another nail and says, “I think you're supposed to drill them into the wall so you can put the rope through it, so you can hoist the flag from the rope.”

He's got the tool kit that normally stays in the BedMates back room in one hand, and on top of it lies a hefty power drill. Faris doesn't even own either of those things.

“Sounds complicated. You can't just put the nails through the O-rings?”

“Yeah, I don't know. It'd probably slip down.” Josh pulls a face at his own words, and they get to work.

As it turns out, there's a good reason why Rhys wanted both of them to do the job. The flag is heavy and unhandy, and there's a total of six nails to fix into the wall, which means after the rope is tied and the flag is threaded onto it, Faris has to keep the flag relatively horizontal while Josh drills the hole for the next nail. Maybe it would've been simpler to just get a regular flag and mast.

They're on the fourth nail, which means Josh is leaning out of the living room window right by the wall and looping the rope with the flag on through the end of it. Outside is glaringly bright, so bright Faris feels that his sunglasses aren't doing much to prevent it. His arms are beginning to get tired.

“So,” he starts, since it's completely quiet asides from the occasional car and the roar of Josh's power drill. “Got any good projects right now?”

“Couple small ones,” Josh says. He finishes threading up the flag and eyes the next window over, one of the windows from Rhys' bedroom. “Local businesses, so I'll get like a few hundred quid total, but no fat fish like Dionysus.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Josh leans back into the flat and Faris does the same, letting go of his portion of the flag. What part of it hadn't been secured yet droops down sadly.

“Maybe I'll grab a real office programmer job if anyone's hiring.”

“Just so long you don't go into retail.”

Josh laughs, crinkly-eyed and cracking. “Did you start your free trial yet?”

Faris wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.

“Well. It's better than Tinder.”

“Still a big spectrum.”

“Not as fun as Grindr. No one's wanted to send me dick pics yet,” Josh says then.

Faris only snorts. He hates dating apps on principle, and he'd like to pretend that's not just due to his complete lack of social skills. “Not worth paying the fee for?”

“Yeah, I think I'm gonna delete my account before they start making me pay. I haven't even hooked up with anyone from this thing yet.”

Faris, as usually, doesn't know what to say, so he shrugs.

“I think I have to go into Rhys' room to do the next hole,” Josh says, then.

“Oh. Okay.”

Rhys has the bedroom at the front of the house, the one that's got actual windows, with a big bed and walls painted a garish shade of crimson. Faris has only really been in there once, and he doesn't like to revisit the reason why.

“Just a sec.”

Josh grabs his stupid electric drill and unplugs it, and he's off. Faris figures he should maybe go and grab the flag from where he left it hanging. Josh's head pops out from the next window over when he does.

“Welcome back.”

“Hullo,” Josh says in this obnoxious accent that he probably thinks is funny, and he takes the flag from Faris and a pencil from his pocket to mark where he needs to drill the next hole.

He bends all the way down and out the window the way he does, when he does, and Faris' stomach contracts at the sight at the same time that his brain does. All it takes is one little slip, one second of Josh losing his balance and he's down on the pavement, twelve feet head-first. All it takes is that Faris leans a _little_ too far out the window and he'll be going the same way. Skull caved, ribs smashed, with just the roar of Josh's power drill ringing out through the street. That drill's definitely strong enough to smash bone, it's just one little slip…

“Yikes,” Faris says to himself.

“What?” Josh asks, just as he's finished drilling.

“Surprise intrusive thought.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Faris snaps the hair tie he keeps on his wrist for that exact purpose until it stings, and he says, “You see why I'm not allowed to handle heavy machinery.”

Josh only snorts out a laugh and starts to push the nail into the brick. “You coming to the Sleepover this weekend?”

“What?” Faris asks. He blinks and tries to recall what today's date is before he realises that, yeah, it matches up, there's _definitely_ a Sleepover on this weekend. “Yeah, I think. I still have to tell Rhys.”

“I'll ask them or Harry later on if you forget.”

“Is it a mixed one that's on this month?” Faris asks before, once again, he realises that this month is definitely a mixed one, too.

“Yeah, it is.” Josh grins and says, “IRL Tinder.”

Faris laughs. “I mean, I'm only doing the half shift on Saturday anyway 'cause of the protest, I might as well.”

“There's _another_ one.”

“Yeah, this one's a big one. Anti-austerity. It's organised by Humanity for Vees Society or something.”

“Humans for Haemos,” Josh sneers.

“Oi.”

“Just joking around.” Josh bares his pointy teeth and says, “You gonna come over here so I can finish hanging up this awful thing?”

After, when they go outside to survey their work, Faris judges it as _passable_ , while Josh only makes a vague _eh_ sound. Harry comes outside to check it out, too, and she says it's great and thanks both of them about four times since Rhys is still tied up with a customer inside.

Faris greatly prefers it that way, considering he had sex on their bed about ten minutes ago and he's not going to look Rhys in the eye right after. Well, in all fairness, Josh had justified it with the fact that Rhys' sex life is keeping him up at night at least twice a week, which was enough reason for Faris to go through with it. Even if he almost pulled back out when Josh made a joke about this being the place where he lost his gay virginity, purely out of spite.


	4. flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra content warning in this chapter for homophobia/transphobia (D slur and Q slur), police brutality/antiblack violence, and blood.

Faris hates protests for much of the same reasons that he hates pride parades, actually. He hates the sun and the noise, and he hates the mass amount of people. More than that, he hates the aggression that crackles in the air and raises the hair on the back of his neck. Well, he figures he should go and stand up for his rights at least once in awhile, though.

Today's overcast at least, his sunnies enough to block out the sunlight that's already filtered by the clouds. Still, Faris only shows up at the meeting point in Trafalgar Square at the last possible second which is only partially because he had work until one. He regrets the decision to be late as soon as he gets off the bus and the crowd is already too thick, the square completely jammed with protesters.

_Where the fuck are you_

True to form, Rhys texts back almost immediately. _We're right by the column. Hurry up xx_

Faris rolls his eyes, but he supposes at least it's not _too_ far away, so he makes his way shouldering through the crowd. Even with the cloudy weather, the air is humid enough that the whole street swims with the stink of bodies, heated in the proximity. It's almost a relief when Faris catches a whiff of Rhys' weird flowery perfume ten feet before he reaches them and Josh where they're standing on the stairs.

“Hey.” Rhys leans up for the obligatory hug and two kisses. They're wearing some flimsy white Velvet Underground t-shirt today, another strappy girlie top underneath, a bralette. That's what girls call them, Faris thinks. “You're just in time.”

“Yeah, sorry I'm late.” Faris reaches out to snag Rhys' bra-thing strap through the material of their top just to make them squeak. “But I made it after all. Haz isn't coming?”

“Someone’s got to watch the shop and prepare the Sleepover for tonight. I'm headed straight back when this is over, so…”

“Hence the outfit?” Faris asks.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Rhys smiles a big smile.

“Hey dickface,” Josh finally says, but he offers Faris his hand to high-five.

“You're the dickface.” Faris accepts the hand, and he says, “Eight dicks in one night?”

Josh does a crackling cackle. “I'm defending my title later tonight.”

Right then the crowd starts moving, so Faris doesn't have time to think about what to retort to that. From somewhere in the crowd, someone starts a chant, “TORIES OUT,” and their fists pump in the air.

As much as Faris hates crowds and noise and yelling, he loves the mob mentality that comes with protests, the adrenaline that pushes him forward. Even more so now that the rush blocks out the ache in his eyes and in his mouth and in his muscles where they'd cramped earlier in the day. He hasn't had any itches in a while now. Still, his skin feels raw where it's exposed on his arms and neck and face, but he doesn't care.

They're close enough to the Houses of Parliament to see the clock on the tower when it happens. Faris says _it_ , because as soon as he hears the first shout, his nervous system automatically rackets up the anxiety and the hairs on his nape stand straight up.

“Look at that! Is that a boy or a girl?”

Faris only turns his head an inkling of an inch to check where it's coming from. It's a guy maybe his age, but _obviously straight_ , complete with the ice gem haircut and the can of beer in hand and maybe four mates in tow, the type who only goes to protests to scream and fight. He quickly whips his head back around before any of them can make eye contact.

“Oi! Oi, little bitch-boy! In the bowl cut! You a man or a bird?”

Faris watches Rhys square their shoulders and sees their hands twitch into fists. When he shoots them a quick glance, they only shake their head and mouth, _Don't_.

“Look at that! I think it's wearing a bra!”

Faris' nerves racket up about ten times higher when he hears the word _it_. His teeth meet his tongue at the same time that his brain rackets up the mental images, the feeling of flesh under skin and teeth tearing it, tender flesh and sweet red blood and the knowledge that he could. He could turn around and break this guy's arm, kill him, eat him. It's the second time this week he's pushing out the intrusive thoughts.

“You just gonna ignore me?”

 _That's_ when Josh whips around and shouts back, “Mind your own fucking business and leave my friend alone, perhaps?”

Faris' instincts say fight-or-flight, but he can't. He counts his steps, one, two, three.

“You're one to talk, you piggish dyke!”

Three, four, no, wait, that was two threes, five… One.

“They're always together, the dykes and the queers, aren't they?”

Two, three, four, five, that's two sets of fives, no, three, no… One, two.

“Oink oink, are you a dyke that wants to be a man or a queer that wishes he was a bird?”

“Come on,” Faris spits out, when his brain short-circuits between the numbers. His hand pushes behind Josh's back. “They're not worth it, let's just…”

Faris lets Rhys go first when he threads them through the crowd, shoulders squared out big. He blocks any and all threats coming from the distance very deliberately from his ears.

“I can't believe he called me a fucking _pig_. Like I'd never heard that before,” Josh says from behind him. They're closer to the front of the crowd now, maybe fifty rows of people between them and the point of the trail of humans.

“Josh,” Faris says back.

He doesn't want to say any more than that, heart still pounding in his throat, and he doesn't _have_ to. Josh shuts up.

“Give me the pills from my backpack.”

“Here.”

“Cheers.”

Faris only gets the benzos prescribed for when his anxiety gets really bad, the kind of anxiety that isn't the direct result of a reasonable threat. Still, he pops one pill out from the thing and swallows it dry.

“Give me your hand?”

“Here.”

Rhys offers their hand up at the same moment and Faris accepts it, the lotion-soft skin a harsh contrast to Josh's calloused paws, and they keep marching in a bee-line.

Someone starts a chant of “NO JUSTICE – NO PEACE – FUCK THE POLICE!” It's enough to take Faris' thoughts to somewhere else just for the moment.

–

He can see the blue and yellow checkers of the police cars well before the peak of the procession reaches the parliament, a human chain of met police coppers in riot gear with a number of them in regular uniforms stood behind them. A shiver runs up Faris' back before he can stop it.

When the chanting stops and the protest comes to a halt, a single voice rings out through the crowd, tinny from a megaphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and enemies. We've congregated here today for one single reason, and it's not a happy reason. It's, if I can be frank, the absolute _bullshit_ our Tory government has been pulling and that they'll continue to pull in the next five years.”

The voice is a man's voice, snarling and sneering and _hammy_ , and Faris wouldn't even dream of laughing at it. He doesn't take long to find where the voice is coming from, a bloke who looks maybe a few years older than him with an uncannily radiant deep brown skin tone and a mop of twisty hair. The bloke’s standing at the very front end of the crowd, right in front of the riot line with his back facing the cops. Faris unconsciously takes a few steps forward deeper into the crowd and closer to where the words are coming from.

“We've had our rations cut again, my brothers and sisters had their rations cut in half down to fifty millilitres a week. That's about the equivalent of two shots of liquor. You expect us to live off two shots a week when I've heard stories of the vulnerable, the working class, the elderly, the sick, the young mothers.

“I've heard more than enough stories about my people struggling to stay conscious, about trying to keep down a job when they're living with constant withdrawal and they can't get more 'cause even our own aren't allowed to look after us. You make us pay for a license to sell blood with money we don't have 'cause you've denied us our opportunities before we even had them, blood most of us can’t afford to buy in the first place. You’re making plans to tax us for living nocturnally, you want us to pay for the bare minimum of accessibility, and again, most of us won’t be able to afford it.

“You expect us to live off two shots.”

The bloke, or perhaps the man, raises one hand with the first two fingers outstretched. V for victory or V for fuck-you. From the crowd comes an unsure, but resounding chant of, “Two shots.”

Faris forms the words with his lips.

“I've seen friends and friends of friends die as a result of their withdrawal, and that was before the ration cuts. You're starving us to death and still you're expecting us to be your factory workers, your coal miners, you want us to do all the jobs you hate. You can't have it both ways.”

Faris isn't sure how he managed to get this much deeper into the crowd, but when he turns his head, he finds Rhys and Josh still right behind him. The speaker's wearing dark black sunglasses much like his own, except his look much more expensive than the ones from Camden Market. Every time he opens his mouth to shout into the megaphone, his canine teeth flash, pointy and long the way Faris has only ever seen them in films and old news footage from the early eighties, before the Haemovore Terrorism Prevention Act.

“You've forced my brothers and sisters to cripple themselves, to undergo a painful, irreversible procedure to strip them of a part of their identity for your own comfort. You pushed us so far thirty years ago, cutting our rations, taking away our jobs, and when we pushed back, you punished us. Now, thirty years on, you're still punishing us. You're cutting our rations again. You expect us to live off two shots.”

Once again, the crowd resounds with, “Two shots.”

Faris feels Josh's hand in his, warm and pulsing with his heartbeat. He can't help but be relieved when he hears Josh say it, too.

“You're allowing history to repeat itself right now, 'cause as a matter of fact, you don't care about anyone but yourself. You don't care about Vampires, you don't care about people of colour. You don't care about the working class or the disabled.

“And I hope none of the members of the police force present here think you're any different from those Tories when you're just as complicit in keeping us down. The Met Police stop and search us Black folks for no reason, for the same _no reason_ that they arrest us Vampires when we're out at night, when we're on our way home from work or from socialising with friends. We're profiled alike as criminals, as violent, as low-lives, for no reason other than your own bigotry and racism. You're just as much responsible for this as…”

Suddenly, his voice is cut off because the megaphone is wrestled away from him.

Faris must have zoned out, because now that he looks again, the Vampire is face-to-face with one of the officers, struggling in his grip. He can't hear what the copper is shouting back into his face, but he can definitely see, just like how he sees when the Vampire digs his fingers deeper into his shoulders and continues shouting, fangs snarling.

Rhys' hand squeezes Faris’ a bit tighter.

The riot cops' hands come to grip the Vampire's wrists, too many hands on his arms and shoulders in an attempt to push him away, all while the one at the back continues gaping open his big mouth in an inaudible tirade. Faris has never hated a man as much as he hates this man at that very second.

He deserves to die, Faris can see it, it's so _god-damn fucking easy_. The riot line can only push away so much and the Vampire has his teeth right there, this ham-faced met police officer has his ham-like neck exposed just like that. The big vein there is _right there_. It takes about a minute or two for a human to bleed out if the carotid artery is severed, Faris knows that. Faris knows this man deserves it when the riot cops start grappling with the Vampire's hair. It would be _so easy_.

The Vampire snaps his head forward and sinks his canines into the copper's fat red neck.

For a split second, Faris thinks he really has to up his antipsychotic dosage.

Before the Vampire pulls back and the screaming sets in.

A spurt of deep red blood jets out from the copper's neck. The carotid artery. In the muddle that forms around him, the Vampire manages to wrangle his megaphone back into his hand.

“You deserved this,” his voice rings out, raw and broken and echoing in Faris' brain the way his previous words hadn't, even through the sound of the panic.

The blood won't stop flowing, deep red like in a movie. Around the Vampire, the struggling bodies writhe in slow motion like he's watching a movie, too. Faris' head feels wrapped in gauze once again, his ears and mouth and brain packed with cotton.

In the air hangs an overwhelming stench of copper pennies.

“This is exactly what you've been doing to us.”

One of the riot cops wrestles his baton into the Vampire's open mouth for his fangs to snag on it, and that's when Faris' instincts kick back in. Fight-or-flight, he finally turns around and starts digging a way through the crowd where it's slowly coming to life again, now that the shock is wearing off. One two three four five steps correspond to one two three four five booming heartbeats. Ten sets of heartbeats for ten sets of steps. The metallic reek won't leave his big numb head and the gauze won't stop making his vision flicker.

From far behind him, another tinny voice comes from a different megaphone. “Please stop recording. There is absolutely nothing to see here.” There's sirens ringing out, the whirr of a helicopter and the breeze it carries, and they're all so far away.

Faris only checks whether Rhys and Josh are still behind him when he's made it into Westminster Tube station.

“Faris,” Rhys exhales, distinct tear-tracks glistening on their cheeks. The station's flooding with bodies headed straight for the trains, and still they take a second to plant their hands on Faris' shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“I think I am,” Faris says, even if his voice comes out a lot more exhausted than he would have expected it. He lays his hands on top of Rhys' to gently push them off, so he can pull off his backpack. “I need another benzo.”

He only sees Josh's face then, after he's popped the little white pill into his mouth and washed it down. His eyes are blank, his face pale around the nose. He only accepts it silently when Rhys turns around to squeeze him in a tight hug.

–

Despite himself and his very principles, Faris is entirely on time for the Sleepover that night. He took a third Clonazepam and drew himself a hot bath as soon as he got back to his flat. After, he called his shrink on her emergency number for the first time ever and ate half a thing of cold cuts and two copper pennies, before he took the bus to Chelsea. He hopes some dick will take his mind off today for good.

Harry's already standing in the halfway with her clipboard when he gets to the rental flat, a pink BedMates branded biro pen in hand.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Harry says with that familiar peppy tone of voice, but even Faris can't help but notice that it sounds fake. “You okay?”

“I guess.” Faris accepts Harry's handshake when she's put the pen away. He asks, “Did Rhys tell you about what happened at the protest?”

“Already read about it on Twitter by the time they got home.” Harry wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, like she's about to say something deeply profound and political. All that actually comes out is a very emphatic, “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.” Faris buries his hands in his pockets and looks down at his boots next to Harry's sandals. As usual, he doesn't know what to say. “I don't know how much I saw, I haven't been on the internet after we left. But it was enough.”

He only barely doesn't jump when Harry's warm hand lands on his shoulder where he wasn't expecting it, but judged from her reaction it must have been obvious anyway.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…”

“It's fine.” Really, it is. “Just wasn't expecting it.”

“Okay.” Harry cracks an awkward Webb family smile, and she says, “Do you mind if, I actually really want to hug you.”

“Go ahead.”

Faris slouches his shoulders to _somewhat_ minimise the height difference between them. Even then, Harry still has to stand on her toes to hug him. He wonders how much Rhys did tell her, and he never really knows what to _do_ in this situation, so he just lets his arms hang by his side. Still, it's comforting, the warmth and proximity of another body and the fruity shampoo Harry uses.

“Feel a bit better now?”

“Little bit, yeah.”

“So,” Harry chirps, and she grabs her pen from the clipboard again. For a few split seconds, she scans the guest list, before she ticks off Faris' name. “It says here that you didn't pay the entry fee in advance?”

“Yeah, I forgot to give it to Rhys.” Faris digs into his pocket to pull out a twenty and two crumbled fivers. “There.”

“Cheers.” Harry folds the notes up neatly to slip them into her pocket. In her best retail voice, she says, “Enjoy yourself,” and she winks.

“Hopefully.”

Faris heads straight up the stairs to the first floor once he's pulled off his shoes and placed them on the floor below the big helpful _PLEASE LEAVE YOUR SHOES HERE_ sign Rhys had brought. In the big open room, two other attendees are already sitting on the sofas. The flat's as disgustingly bright as Faris remembers, and he regrets leaving his sunglasses tucked into one boot already.

Rhys is in the kitchen across from the living space, in their strappy girlie top and their tight-tight jeans, big cardboard box on the tabletop next to them.

“Hey. How're you?”

Faris only shrugs, and Rhys chokes out a laugh.

“Got any valuables?”

“Phone.”

Faris digs his phone and passport from one pocket, his keys from the other, and hands them all over to Rhys.

“Perfect.”

Rhys peels three matching stickers off the sheet they keep and stick one onto each, and they place everything into the box with the other variables. They give Faris the most crinkly-eyed dimpled smile they've got, and Faris only nods.

He regrets coming early now, especially given that Josh isn't there yet, so he simply folds himself down to sit Indian style on one of the futons covering the living room floor. The flat's so incredibly posh Faris feels out of place just breathing in its sterile air, one of those bright, modern places that feel like living in a plastic bubble.

Rhys has a playlist of pop diva videos on the big TV screen mounted onto the wall, so he simply watches that as he waits for the room to fill up. He sees a couple of people he vaguely recognises, a guy he sucked off at the Sleepover two months ago, but no Josh. For a while, he counts the seconds ticking on the digital clock at the bottom of the screen, twelve times five until the minute is full. Until it's ten to ten and Josh still isn't anywhere to be seen. When he goes to ask Rhys about it, Faris finds them with twinky Joe sitting in their lap, clearly too wrapped up to make conversation.

–

The clock turns to ten on the spot when Rhys turns Britney on the TV to mute and steps into the empty space on the futons, right into the centre of attention. Harry follows a few seconds later, another cardboard box in hand.

Josh still hasn't arrived.

Faris picks himself up off the floor to pad over to the two, and he crouches down to ask, “Hey. So, Josh still hasn't showed up, I was just wondering if…”

“He's staying home tonight,” Harry says. She's taken off her blouse so she's only in her shorts and a lacy bra. Faris isn't sure if it's okay to look or not. “He's fine, he said he just wants some rest.”

Faris says, “Okay,” and doesn't know if it truly is. “I'll text him later to check in, then.”

“You probably should. Just to be sure he’s alright.” Harry gives him a big smile, and she says, “Shoo now. We're starting.”

As soon as Faris has folded himself back into his spot on the floor, Rhys clears their throat.

“Hello. Good evening everyone, welcome to BedMates' Sleepover Party. I'm Rhys, I'm your host for tonight.”

“And I'm Harry.”

“I'll just run you through the basics really quick, especially since we've got a lot of unknown faces in the crowd tonight. Happy Pride, everybody.”

Rhys beams one of their big bright smiles, and Faris can't help but smile back. From what he can see, neither can a good portion of the other twenty-eight attendees in the room.

“First of all, this is a safe sex-only play party. We do _not_ want to put anyone in an uncomfortable situation based on their sexual history, so we require protection for any and all genital contact, and we've provided condoms, gloves, dental dams and lube in every room. The same goes for toys, if you've brought your own toys, please only use them with a condom.”

Faris is reasonably sure Rhys is reciting the rules that are printed online and on the play party fliers from memory. Still, he listens intently to their smooth voice.

“We've provided drinks and snacks in the kitchen, but please wash your hands before and after you go to eat or drink anything, and please do not have sex in the kitchen. We've got this open space right here, and there's one big bedroom downstairs and one upstairs, and another small one if anyone wants a little more privacy.”

Rhys giggles at their own words, and they fold their fingers, face already flushed pink with… something. Possibly excitement, or the fact that they've just been snogging their boyfriend, who's now lounging on one of the two sofas and staring at them with a look on his face like a young dog looking at its owner. Faris is only slightly sickened.

“On the topic of safe sex, don't purposely spill your bodily fluids on the furniture or the bedding, please. Not just because it's not our furniture, but also 'cause it's gross and someone else might want to have sex on the same surface afterwards, so we've provided towels, there’s a stack in every room. There's a bin in every room, too, please dispose of your condoms and other protection there when you're done. And there's two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, if you want to shower after you're done, or just to freshen up. Please, don't have sex in the bathrooms either.”

Once again, Rhys pauses to giggle at their own words.

“Right,” Harry says. “Some notes about consent really quick. We've got a strict anti-harassment policy here, so if anyone's making you uncomfortable, please tell me or Rhys about it, and we’ll ask them to leave and blacklist their name so they won't come back.

“There's a difference between a consensual voyeurism scene and being a creep. Trust me, I can tell.”

Harry makes a vague gesture with both hands before she folds them across her chest. She says, “We're a vanilla play party, but we don't discourage kink, so long as you keep it safe, sane and consensual, and as long as there's no blood spilled. Generally treat each other with respect, please, so if you reject someone's advances, please be nice, and if someone rejects you, don't try to make them change their mind. Please.”

She turns her head to face Rhys again, and she nods at them.

“If you want to leave the party, please go find Harry or myself before you do, since I'll be taking the box with your valuables and moving it to a safe place, so if you've got anything on your person you don't want to lose still you should probably turn it in now.”

They smile a bright smile, and Harry takes the word again.

“You can strip off in the bathrooms now if you like, as far as you're comfortable with.” She cracks an equally bright smile, and she says, “Enjoy yourselves.”

“Have fun,” Rhys echoes. “When you’re ready, please come forward and take a bracelet so everyone can tell your preference, we've got red for tops, blue for bottoms and purple for versatile. Our official part is over with that, but as I said, if someone’s making you uncomfortable, don’t hesitate to tell us”

Harry says, “That's everything now.”

Rhys says, “Thank you.”

The crowd starts to come to life once again around Faris when they've finished speaking, and he figures he should probably pick himself up as well.

That’s when a voice comes from his right. “Excuse me?”

Faris turns his head to face the person who the voice belongs to, a woman with uncanny-pale skin that seems to shine even more against her dark hair and black dress.

“Yeah?”

“When he said top and bottom…”

“They,” Faris interrupts her on reflex.

“What?”

“They,” he repeats. “Rhys doesn't really do gender,” he adds, and he immediately wonders if he should've said that to a stranger.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” The woman smiles, and a short, tiny laugh that makes her eyes crinkle slips out. She says, “So, when _they_ said top and bottom, did they mean it, you know… in a Dom-sub context?”

Her voice is harsher than Faris would have expected it, too harsh to match her face. She's got an accent he can't place at all.

“No, no.” Faris shakes his head. “It's, they just said, this is a mostly-vanilla play party. It's just to tell your preference if you prefer getting fucked or doing the fucking, you know?”

“Oh, okay.” She smiles again, a big, teeth-baring smile that's got something distinctly _off_ about it, but Faris can't place it. “In that case, could you bring me back a verse one?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The bracelets are those rubber shag bands from Claire's Accessories, the ones that used to be popular years ago when he was in high school. Faris picks two purple ones out from the box and squeezes one over his hand and onto his wrist.

“Here you go,” he says when he hands the other one over. “Purple meant snogging, I think.”

“What?”

“At some schools a couple years ago, there was this game where if you snapped someone's rubber band you had to do them some sexual favour supposedly. It was like a big thing in the Daily Mail and I think some MPs tried to get the bracelets banned from shops.” Faris laughs and pulls at the shag band where it's resting against his wrist. “Did you not have that?”

“Not really. Think I'm too old to remember that.”

“Oh, okay.”

Faris watches her pull the shag band on herself. She's got dainty wrists and delicate hands for it to slide on easily, and she looks at it with approval.

“This your first time at Sleepover?” he asks, and immediately after realises what a stupid question that is.

“Yeah. I usually just go to kink events, but I figured I should branch out since it's Pride season. Find myself a nice girl to hook up with, you know…” She laughs again.

“So, are you a lesbian?”

“Bisexual.”

“Cool. Me too,” Faris says. “Sorry if this is rude to ask, but you've got a really strange accent. Where are you from?”

“It's not rude.” The woman bares her teeth when she laughs again, and once again, her smile appears uncanny, the proportions of her teeth somehow wrong. “I'm from Canada, actually.”

“Canada,” Faris repeats.

“Yeah, I’m from British Columbia. Deepest countryside.” She rearranges herself on the futon and asks, “Where're _you_ from?”

“Well, I grew up in Hull,” Faris says.

On the sofa in his peripheral vision, two girls are already settling down in their bras and knickers, and he's generally got the feeling that he and Canada are wearing the most clothes in the room. Maybe he should find out her name next.

“But my dad's from Palestine if that's what you meant,” he adds. Since he's beginning to feel too warm even with the air conditioning on, he says, “Wait.”

“I think you're supposed to strip in the bathrooms,” Canada says when he's got his shirt mostly pulled off.

Faris only shrugs when he starts to fold the shirt somewhat neatly. “I mean, everyone's gonna see me naked either way, so.”

“Fair enough.” And she laughs.

He’s somewhat more hesitant with taking off his skinny fits and socks, but he tells himself no one else is going to pay attention to his legs either way. Besides, the woman readily pulls her dress up over her head as well.

“Better,” he says, and he hopes his smile doesn't look too weird.

Canada laughs. “Much better.”

She's got small pointy breasts, in another one of those bralette things and matching plain black knickers, and she's not wearing tights, but stockings that go up to her mid-thigh. Faris is _delighted_ to realise that she's not shaved below the waist.

“I'm Faris, by the way.”

“It's nice to meet you, Faris, but I really don't think I should be telling you my name.”

“Oh. Okay.” Faris says, “I just thought we had…”

“No, no, it's not like that. You can call me Cat, that's my fake name for kink, I just… I need to be extra careful with telling people my real name, 'cause of my job.”

Once again, Faris says, “Oh.”

Cat laughs at him.

“Wow. Personally, I just work in retail.” Faris fidgets, and then he asks, “You're not in the secret service or anything, right?”

“No, I'm not.” She laughs once again, and she says, “I'm a professional soprano and choir director. But I work with a lot of children, so I try to keep it a secret that I go to sex parties.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Faris says, even though he can't even imagine _getting_ that. “Is that why you came to England? To further your career?”

“That's part of the reason.” Cat smiles and fidgets in a way that deliberately lets the fabric of the bralette slip down her breasts to expose a slip of pale pink nipple. “Really I've just always liked the country and the culture.”

Faris only nods.

“I know it sounds really silly, especially considering how bad our legal status is compared to Canada, but it's, you know… I've always wanted to live here since I was a little girl.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what d'you mean, legal status? You mean, like… LGBT people?”

“Oh, no, no.” Cat shakes her head, curls bouncing freely, and Faris traces the movement. “I was talking about… wait. You're not a Vampire?”

Faris says, “No. No, not that I'm aware of.”

“Oh, shit.” Her face changes for a second, an expression Faris cannot place. She says, “Sorry I just assumed for some reason.”

“It's fine.”

It all comes together now, her pale skin, not translucent but stark white, and that subtle _off-ness_ in her teeth.

“So, you're Vee?”

“I am. Born that way, too. Both my parents were.”

“Wow,” Faris says, his impulse reaction to this revelation. “Sorry, I've just never really talked to a Vampire before.”

Well, he'd had four Vee kids at his school during his entire time at Rugby. There were a few more on his course and in his halls at uni, but the fact that he never talked to any of them had more to do with crippling social anxiety than anything else.

Cat laughs some more, and he's pretty sure it's _at_ him once again.

“But I really had no idea, I mean, you've got normal teeth, so…”

Faris realises immediately after he's said it that he's probably just put his foot in his mouth.

“Yeah, I had to get them filed down to get my Visa. They filed the one off a bit too short, see?” Cat flashes her teeth and points a naked fingernail at one canine.

Faris smiles. “HTP, right.” _That's_ the foot he just put in his mouth alright, the Haemovore Terrorism Prevention act. “D'you have the two shots of rations, too? In Canada?”

“Not really, no. It's kind of expensive, so if you've got no income the state is required to give you small weekly rations. But we've got a lot of big game further north, and the sale isn't heavily regulated, so it's easier to get for us.”

“Oh, that's cool.” Faris asks, “Did you hear what happened at the protest rally today?”

“With the protester who attacked the cop,” Cat says. “I only saw titbits on the Internet before I went out. It's pretty awful, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Faris scratches the gross scar tissue on his leg, to ease the itch and to have something to fidget with. He considers saying, _I saw how he bit the copper. I was there._ But he doesn't. He also considers saying how he’s not sure it could be considered an _attack_ if the police officer made the first move.

“I actually went to the rally with my friends, but we left when the altercations started,” he says instead. “I haven't really been on the internet since.”

He doesn't know whether she believes it, but in any case, Cat smiles, with her odd filed-down fangs. Maybe Faris should change the direction of the conversations.

“So… you said you normally went to BDSM events?”

“Yeah, I've been active in the scene for almost ten years now, but not as active as I'd like.”

Faris says, “Wouldn't have guessed that.” It's in reference to the fact that she definitely doesn't _look_ like she's been in the scene for that long, but then, Faris doesn't want to put his foot in his mouth again. Instead, he adds, “I mean, you don't really look like someone who's into that stuff.”

“What d'you _mean_?”

“You look very…” Faris eyes Cat up and down as he searches for the appropriate word. “Very wholesome, like a good girl, you know?”

“Well,” she says. “I'm a good Catholic girl, I guess.”

Faris only then notices the silver cross pendant hanging over her cleavage. A Catholic Vampire. He knows it's a stupid haemophobic stereotype made up by the Christian church, but he still can't keep himself from suppressing a laugh.

“And I like punishing girls who've been bad, so.” She cracks a naughty little smile, and Faris is reasonably sure he's never wanted to sleep with a girl quite this much before.

“So, you're a Dom, then,” Faris observes. “Domme?” He's not quite sure of the terminology.

“I prefer just _Dominant_ , but pretty much.” Cat leans in to show her breasts once again. Faris is reasonably sure it's okay to look this time. “What about you? Are you into the scene?”

“Not really. I'm vanilla, I guess.” Faris fingers the shag band on his wrist once again, twists it over the hair tie there, and he says, “I've been thinking about branching out, like you call it, going to munches and stuff like that. But I'm really bad at social interaction and I just go to Sleepover 'cause I know Rhys and Harry, so.”

“Good to know.” Cat laughs. “I try to go to Carnival of Sins regularly, it’s this club night in Camden that’s pretty tame, but it’s a good way to meet others in the scene if you’re new. Maybe you should check that out, it’s on twice a month.”

“I’ll think about it,” Faris says. “I guess I’ll see you there if I do go.”

“Hopefully.” She grins, and she says, “So, Vanilla Boy. D’you think if you got into the scene proper that you’d be a Dominant or a submissive?”

“Always thought I’d be a submissive, I guess. Even if I don’t look the part, either.”

“No, you do. Very much,” Cat insists. “You’ve got those subby puppy eyes, you know?”

Faris does not know what to say to that. He laughs. “I like it when my boyfriend bites me, I mean. And when he scratches down my back, so I figure I’d be a pain sub.”

As soon as he’s said it, Faris isn’t sure why he just felt the need to call Josh his boyfriend.

“You’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Not really. We’re best friends and we have sex a lot, I just say he’s my boyfriend at Sleepover ‘cause it’s quicker. People don’t question it normally.”

A solid bullshitted explanation.

Cat says, “Oh, okay.”

“Yeah, we usually go together but he’s not here tonight.”

Faris attempts a natural-looking smile and judged by Cat’s smile in response, he presumes it succeeds. Time to get to the meat of this conversation.

“But… You are.” That line was terrible.

“So it seems,” Cat says. “Come here.” Her dainty pointer finger snags in the silver chain of Faris' necklace so she can pull him in, and she asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Definitely.”

This is the true reason Faris bothers with coming to play parties. He likes the casual sex without having to navigate the pits that is dating apps, but he loves snogging even more. Whether that's because he gets to really inhale the other person or because of the plushy-velvet sensation, or the raw, hot taste of _mouth_. He likes that unifying factor between all the people he's ever hooked up with, no matter whether they'd been boys or girls, cis or trans, brown or white, the fact that all mouths feel and taste more or less the same.

Cat’s assertive when she kisses, one hand still guiding him with the chain, the other in the back of his hair, tongue probing just a little too much. Faris doesn't close his eyes during it so he can watch her nipples slowly stiffen under the fabric. He braces one hand on her soft thigh to steady himself, the exposed strip of skin between knickers and stocking that's a stark contrast against the black and an equally stark contrast against the dusky colour of his skin. She's warmer than he would've imagined it, warm skin and a warm, gentle mouth that tastes just like _mouth_ with the subtle after-taste of something rotten. For no reason at all, Faris thinks about copper pennies again.

Finally, she pulls back. “You look like you've got a big dick.”

“I guess I do,” Faris says back, very matter of fact. “D'you want to stay on the futon or see if there’s a bed that’s still got space on it?”

Cat hums and pecks him on the lips again before she picks herself off the floor. “Rather do it on a bed, I think. Come up, Boy.”

“You gonna boss me around now?” Faris asks, and he lets his tongue slip over his lips in a way that's not entirely deliberate, but she seems to like it. He likes being bossed around, too, for that matter.

“A little, maybe.”

She helps pull him off the floor, and when she has, she runs a hand over his neck, thumbs at the remains of the mark Josh had left there at some point.

“Wow, I wish I could scratch you bloody.”

Faris shrugs. “Maybe you can. Some other time.”

“Very good.”

She forces him to bend all the way down to kiss her again, a whole foot of height difference between them. Still, Faris feels just as powerless as much as he likes it.

“Come on.”

–

In the end, they find one third of the king-sized bed upstairs still free, just enough space so Faris can push up the bralette and pull off her knickers. He’s careful to keep her stockings where they are when he settles between her legs for more kisses. After, he goes down on her until she's come twice, at least twenty minutes even with the latex barrier blocking out the taste of her pussy, burying his nose in her bush.

“You're gonna have to go on top,” he says when he's discarded the dental dam on the bedside. “My legs are kind of bummed at the moment.”

He lets his pants-covered cock bump against her leg, just to make sure she can tell how hard he's gotten from licking her out alone, and he plays with her nipple.

“But you like that. Like being in control.”

Cat laughs at him. “Yeah.” She digs her nails into his nape, hard enough it feels like it'll draw blood. Faris half hopes it will, and she says, “You know, I want to tie you up so bad.”

“Could always just tie my wrists over my head,” Faris suggests. He wants that, he wants so much, and more than that, he wants to feel her around his cock already.

He grabs the condom he'd put aside from the side table, one of those ridiculous pink ones Rhys gives out for free in the shop, before he lets his dick spring free above the waistband of his pants.

“D'you want to put it on, or should I…?”

“Let me. Lie on your back.”

Cat sits on his thighs, heavier than she looks. She grips the root of his cock with a force that makes him nervous at the same time that it just gets him really _excited_ , and she slips the condom on. Before she sits on it, she rubs the bellend over her pussy a few times, once again too slick with the barrier separating them.

“If it's too big for you, just tell me.”

“It's fine.”

She rocks her hips experimentally to sink down deeper, one thumb playing over her clit. Just when Faris thinks she's going to brace herself on the mattress next to his head, she slips her thumb between his lips.

“Suck me.”

Faris doesn't need to hear it to do it, but at the same time, he lets his eyes slip shut, and his hands go to her hips. He doesn't pull at her when she sinks down deeper, about as deep as she can manage, but he relishes it when she swivels her hips more deliberately. She lets a deep, pleasurable breath punch out from her mouth, and Faris laughs through her thumb caught in his mouth.

“I wish I could gag you with my knickers, you know?”

Faris doesn't want to say any more. What he wants is to listen to her more, hear her describe everything she could possibly do to make him hers, and he simply hums against her thumb. Like that's her cue, she starts to properly ride him.

The whole time, all Faris can focus on is the distinct smell he finds underneath her perfume, more the equivalent of an aftertaste than the real thing. She smells like chemical-sweet petrol, but with the same rot as the one in her mouth mixed in, petrol if it could possibly go _off_.

–

Faris thanks Cat after it's over, and after he's disposed of the filled-up condom and the dam, he takes a quick shower in the upper-floor bathroom. He’s not truly in the mood to socialise in the kitchen, and he’s not in the mood for fresh fruit and vegan cake pops, either, so he finds his pile of clothes in the living room and goes to search for a Webb so he can get his phone and keys back.

“Here you go.” Rhys looks well-snogged from the boy they'd just been attached to who definitely wasn't Joe, and they pass Faris his phone with the beaten-up case and his lanyard. “Had fun?”

“Definitely.” He tucks his phone and passport into the right pocket, his keys into the left. “I think I'll stop by to check on Josh on my way home.”

“You probably should,” Rhys says. Faris has the feeling he’s heard that before.

They lean up to kiss Faris goodbye, one peck on each cheek, and Faris squeezes them into a last hug before he heads downstairs to get his shoes.

Above the rainbow flag banner on the BedMates façade, the living room windows flicker with the unsteady blue of a television screen. Faris takes that to mean Josh isn't asleep yet. He picks a stray pebble off the pavement to chuck it at one of the windowpanes, and since he isn't sure whether Josh noticed, he pulls out his phone to send a text, too.

_I'm outside your house_

_i know. stop throwing shit at my window dickead_

A second later, another text buzzes onto his screen. _doors unlocked_

Faris only shrugs, an empty gesture aimed at nobody but his phone screen, but he goes inside either way. He pulls his boots off before he walks up the stairs, and he takes off his sunglasses and clips them to his t-shirt collar.

Josh's sitting curled-up on the ugly couch, just as Faris had expected, laptop balanced on his knees. What Faris didn't expect is that he's got BBC News playing on silent, not so much watching as he's just using the TV as a night light.

“Hey.”

Josh says,” hey,” and draws his legs that little bit closer to his torso to make room on the couch.

He's wearing his trackies and one of many disgustingly ratty emo band t-shirts, no binder. Faris accepts the seat gratefully.

“How've you been?”

Josh makes a snivelly noise that doesn't sound like much of anything, but definitely nothing good.

“Hey.” Faris stretches his arm out along the backrest to at least get within the vicinity of touching Josh, leans in so he could properly see Josh's face if it wasn't obscured by the computer screen, and he says, once again, “Hey. Gonna put that laptop away?”

“Wait.”

Josh clicks around on the screen for a few more seconds before he folds the Macbook closed. He moves the laptop onto the coffee table so Faris can see his face in the blue TV light.

“You look like a train wreck,” Faris says very matter-of-fact.

Josh's an ugly crier, Faris knows that. His face turns a splotchy red and his nose balloons up. Still, it's a shock to see him like this, eyes bloodshot and swollen with the eyeliner smudged underneath them.

Josh snivels again, face crusty with tears and snot.

“Hey,” Faris insists. “It's okay.”

He has no idea what's going on or if it _is_ okay, actually.

Josh shakes his head.

“Look,” he says. “I get it, I'm not haemophobic. I understand why he did it, I guess.”

Josh snorts out a large wad of snot, and despite himself, Faris instantly jerks away.

“Have you been doing this all night? Watching the news and crying?”

He only realises how insensitive it sounds after he's said it.

Josh shakes his head. “I guess… I had a takeaway from next door and went on the internet and watched some TV. I just changed the channel to news 'cause nothing else was on, and then everything came back up.” He audibly swallows, and Faris doesn't know what to do.

“You don't need to tell me if you don't want to.” Faris touches Josh's shoulder, warm under the fabric of his shirt, and he asks, “D'you want to wash your face off while I put the kettle on?”

He really hopes it doesn't sound patronising, but Josh only sniffs and nods.

“I'm hungry.”

“Okay.”

So Faris makes tea. While he waits for the kettle to boil and for the tea to steep, he finds the remote and unmutes the TV for a bit. They're talking about the protest again, blurry mobile phone camera footage of what happened, filmed from too far away for the copper's face to be discernible. A correspondent reporter is talking to a different police officer in front of the clock tower, another red-faced man who's spitting words about an absolute disgrace. Then, another reporter is talking to a Tory MP. Faris doesn't want to listen.

They show a portrait of the cop and say his name, Paul Wallis, and note that he’s got a wife and three children. He’s been taken to A&E and his condition has stabilised, and a large number of Vampire protesters have been arrested. No word on what happened to the one who attacked him, other than they say it’s not sure whether the attack was unprovoked or not. Faris thinks back to what he remembers, the coppers’ grabby hands and that man’s nasty snarling face, and he’s reasonably sure it _wasn’t_.

Josh comes out of the bathroom just when the tea must be done steeping, and Faris changes the channel to one of those obnoxious cartoons he likes.

“Better?”

“A bit. Less disgusting,” Josh says, and then, his attention focusses towards the TV. “South Park's on.”

“You better enjoy it.”

Faris pours the tea into two matching bear mugs, and he resists the temptation of Rhys' good ham when he opens the fridge to get the milk.

“Cheers,” Josh says and raises his mug to Faris' in a mock toast.

Faris turns down the volume. It's a rerun of that dreadful episode with the penis mouse, although most of them are about penises, really.

“I'm still thinking about it,” Josh says after he's taken a good sip. “I never really stopped thinking about it but when I saw the news and I saw all that blood again I just started freaking out and I didn’t stop.” He blinks a few times, the moisture that's started to well up in the corners of his eyes again, and he says, “But it's better now, I guess.”

“That's good.” Faris leans in once again to drape an arm over Josh's shoulders. For lack of anything else, he says, “Good.”

Josh smells like a trace of Indian food and sweat and his disgusting Lynx, warm and steady. Faris almost feels at peace for a second again, the first time since the protest, and the first time he's felt truly _comfortable_ in his body since the cravings and the itching kicked in.

“I'm still hungry, you know,” Josh says. “Make me food?”

Faris doesn't even think about clapping back with some remark. “What d'you want to eat?”

“I don't care.” Josh draws his knees up to his chest to hide it once more, even if it can't possibly be comfortable. He says, “Food. Something greasy.”

“Okay.”

Faris looks at Josh's profile, his nose and eyes that are still a little bit swollen, his eyes naked without the make-up. He wants to kiss Josh again, maybe on the cheek or on the forehead. Kissing it better.

“I'll make you cheesy toast,” Faris says, since that's the first thing that comes to his mind that's both greasy and that Rhys definitely has all the ingredients for in the fridge.

“Okay.”

He gets up and nuzzles into the top of Josh's hair, where it's still a bit sticky with hairspray even after it deflated. He almost definitely makes it look like an accident, or at least Josh doesn't shove him off.

Faris resists the tempting ham once again when he gets the cheese and butter from the fridge. He makes Josh a cheese on toast and adds some microwaved baked beans to the plate when it's finished, just in case.

“Beans,” Josh says when Faris passes the plate to him over the back of the couch.

“Yeah, I don't know,” Faris says. “Figured I should make it _look_ like a balanced meal, at least.”

Faris doesn't bother with walking all the way around, simply climbs over the couch so he can sit on the other half. He watches Josh eat his toast, dipping it into the tomato sauce from the beans, and he shoves his feet under Josh's bum and forces himself to watch a whole two episodes of South Park in silence.

“D'you want to stay here tonight?” Josh asks eventually, after he's finally gotten up to leave his plate and the empty mugs in the sink.

“D'you want me to stay?”

“Probably,” Josh says from where he's leaning over the back of the couch to look down at Faris.

“Okay.” Faris starts to get up from the couch, which takes an embarrassingly long time as usual. “D'you want to stay in Harry's room? 'cause I'm not sleeping on the sofa.”

Harry's got the other bedroom in the flat, behind the kitchen with no windows but a big bed, and her walls are painted a genuinely nice shade of purple. She's almost definitely crashing at the Sleepover flat tonight after the party’s over, too, so Faris supposes it’ll be okay.

Josh shrugs. “Okay.”

Faris shuts off the TV with one press of the remote, like an unspoken agreement that they're going to bed right away.

“Thank you. For checking up on me. And for the cheesy toast.”

“Don't mention it,” Faris says. He braces his hand on the small of Josh's back to lean into him again, and he kisses Josh's forehead.

“Ew.”

“Shush.”

Harry's bed is possibly the biggest bed Faris has ever slept in, big enough to take up half of the room with a mountain of pillows at the head of it. The soft colour of the walls looks even softer in the dim pink light of the bedside lamp. Faris lets Josh go first to sleep in the spot closer to the wall, and the light makes _him_ look much softer, too.

Faris slides in underneath the covers only after Josh's made himself comfortable, stripped down to his shirt and a pair of Josh's pants since his own are nasty after having sex in them. He fluffs up the pillows and reaches behind himself to turn off the light, and he extends a hand to find Josh's shoulder in the dark.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Josh says back.

“D'you want to cuddle?”

He says it purely with no ill intention in mind. This is neutral territory, Harry's not having uncomfortably loud sex in this bed. Faris _definitely_ doesn't have an uncomfortable memory of shagging her buried deep in his mind, so he's not going to try anything. Besides, Josh doesn't seem to be in the mood for said anything, either. Still, the bed feels _too_ big around the both of them, and maybe he should hold Josh for a bit. Maybe that'll help him feel better.

“Spoon?”

“Yeah, sure.” Faris inches closer across the mattress, enough that he can rest his head on Josh's shoulder. “Which one d'you want to be?”

“Little spoon. If that's okay.”

“Yeah, it's fine.”

Faris drapes one arm over Josh's waist and worms the other one underneath him to properly hold him, even if he knows it'll be numb in a matter of minutes. He inhales the pheromone from behind Josh's ear, mixed with the stench of the product he uses. This time, it doesn't turn him on as much as it's comforting, the way the smell of home-cooked food is. Faris hums.

“How was your play party?”

“Fun,” Faris says.

“That's good.”

“I shagged a secret service Vampire. She was from Canada and we talked about fetish clubs.”

Josh cackles.

–

Faris doesn't check any social media until his lunch break on the Wednesday after.

He wakes up early on the Sunday morning, before Rhys and Harry are back, so he makes Josh a cup of tea and eats two slices of that stupid ham before he walks home to change and go to work. The big Pride weekend is less than a week away now, so that's something that keeps them all busy and stops them from bringing up the incident in conversation.

Rhys has somehow doubled their enthusiasm for Pride, which means the shop is now decorated with an excessive amount of pink balloons and various flags, and every last thing that comes out of their mouth is _somehow_ related to the topic, whether it's the clubs that are doing specials for the night or the DJ set they're booked for. Most often, it’s the actual appearance from BedMates in the parade and at the festival in Trafalgar Square, and they spend at least one evening arguing back-and-forth with Harry about the design for the t-shirts this year. Other than that and work, Faris keeps himself busy with art, getting back into drawing whenever he can. That's definitely not because he's trying to avoid the topic.

In any case, when Faris opens Facebook during that lunch break, he finds that what feels like half of his timeline has been talking about _it_. At the very top of his feed sits a BuzzFeed article that's been shared by multiple people, titled, _Here's Everything You Need to Know About What's Happening in the London Vampire Community Right Now_. He only hesitates a split second before he clicks to skim it.

There's another video which someone uploaded onto Twitter. Judged from the thumbnail it was recorded from much closer than the phone camera footage shown on the news, even closer than where he stood when it happened. Faris skims the caption underneath, something about multiple police officers using racial and haemophobic slurs and the subsequent battering and arrest of the Vampire protester. He decides it’s best to not watch the video.

He scrolls down further to find that they've released the Vampire's name and picture, Samuel Dumont, age thirty-seven, heavily involved with Antifa and several Vee rights groups. Pronounced dead in police custody on Sunday morning. Faris knows it’s inappropriate for that to be his first thought, but he would’ve guessed much younger. According to the article, #TwoShots and #justiceforsamdumont are two of the top trending topics on Twitter right now, and both the Black and Vee communities are in an uproar.

Faris begins to feel a bit ill. He closes out of the article and unfriends two guys from uni posting haemophobic bullshit in the wake of it, and he shuts his phone off and stows it away in his backpack. That steak bake he's got in front of him suddenly doesn't look so good anymore.


	5. baptism

Today's a brutally sweltering heat wave day, so warm Faris’ hair starts to feel sweaty again as soon as he steps out of his building, even though he just blow-dried it. The world looks garishly bright through his sunnies, the air simmering above the ground with the stench that sits in the neighbourhood. On the bus to the city centre, it feels that much worse. Faris sits on the top deck next to a lady reading a copy of the _Mirror_ , and he makes a point to not read any of the headlines. He finally turned his phone back on earlier this morning, if only to coordinate where exactly they'd meet up with the rest of the group chat.

Faris hasn't owned a TV since he graduated from Uni, since he figures the password to James' Netflix account is more than enough for him. He's going to take any excuse he can get to be unaware of how bad things have gotten. Still, a stink of decay hangs over Hackney, the same decay he'd noticed earlier, and he can't help but worry for the worst once again. He swallows a Clonazepam tablet, just in case, and he arranges himself in his seat to be as unobstructive as possible and pretends the air conditioning on this bus is working.

He gets off at the stop by Regent's Park where the city is already flocking with people and the official meeting spot for the parade is a few minutes down the road still. The crowd is overwhelmingly rainbow-coloured, with the odd blue-white-pink trans pride flag or bright bisexual flag between, plus some flags where he doesn't know what they stand for. A portable speaker croaks a tinny Lana song between the all-consuming chatter, and Faris is distinctly reminded of tropical birds.

Just to reiterate, Faris _hates_ Pride parades. He'd managed to weasel his way out of volunteering for BedMates at last year's one, something about having to visit his mum in Hull for her birthday. This year, though, he hasn't got any familial excuses to get out of this and he's not sure it could be any worse than visiting home, either. Also, he appreciates any reason to take the day off from work. Faris checks Google Maps again for where Harry had said they would meet up, the Polish embassy, and it's not that it's too far away but that the crowd is too thick for him to possibly get through.

“Oi! Oi, bird man!”

A crumbled-up piece of paper hits him sideways in the face and bounces off his nose. From the glossy finish and the awful pink colour, Faris identifies it as one of those ten-percent-off coupons they're supposed to pass out during the parade. He turns his head only to see Harry chiding Josh and calling him a dickhead, they're supposed to _give those to people_ , but she stops to wave just as soon.

“Faris! Over here!”

Awfully helpful. There's already a barrier separating the pavement from the road, but Faris simply climbs over it.

“Hey gays.”

Harry says, “Hey,” and goes in for the obligatory hug.

She's wearing one of those flower headbands girls wear to music festivals, a glittery purple female-on-female sign painted on her one cheek. There is _so much glitter_ here.

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m warm,” Faris simply says.

Harry’s _also_ wearing a bright pink BedMates t-shirt, and Faris finds himself briefly horrified at the prospect of having to wear one as well.

That’s when a nasal voice says, “Hey, Ferris,” and Faris realises that twinky Joe is here, too.

“Hey man,” Faris says back purely out of habit. Just as soon, he corrects, “My name’s pronounced _Faris_.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, it’s not.”

A few split seconds of awkward silence arise between them, before Joe says, “Anyway. Ferris, this is my sister, Isabel.”

Joe’s sister looks precisely like him save for the long blonde hair and lipstick. Her nails are painted cherry red when she stretches one hand out to shake Faris’.

“Izzy.”

“Faris,” Faris says. “Are you a lizzbian?”

With a look on her face like she’s definitely heard that before, she says, “No. No, I’m a straight ally.”

“That’s cool. I respect that.” Faris, for lack of knowing what to do, slots his hands into his pockets. “So. Are you guys twins, or…?”

“Not exactly,” Izzy says. “I’m the younger one.”

“Hey bird face.”

Finally, Josh enters the conversation and saves Faris from having to engage in more horrible small talk.

“You look _ridiculous_ ,” Faris says instead of a real greeting, but he pulls Josh into a man-hug either way.

Josh’s wearing a black shirt with the BedMates logo on. Much like Harry, he’s got a glittery transgender symbol painted on his cheek and a wreath of flowers on his head that’s slowly being swallowed up by his hairdo. However, what really makes it ridiculous is the fact that the blonde portion of his hair’s been dyed into an obnoxious pink-yellow-blue gradient.

“What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

“What the fuck did you do to your _face_?” Josh retorts, but Faris catches him by the wrist before he can actually grab hold of Faris' jaw.

“At least I didn’t give myself scene hair.”

“It’s the colours of the pansexual pride flag,” Josh insists. “And it’s _temp spray dye_.”

“Did you pick that particular flag because it’s the one with the most garish colours?”

“Maybe a little.” Josh cackles and leans back against the metal barrier.

“Faris?” Harry’s voice comes from behind the two of them. “You still need your t-shirt.”

Faris realises with deep relief that the shirt is, indeed, not pink, merely a black logo one to match Josh and the twinky siblings. He hadn’t been there for when Rhys and Harry actually decided on the design for the shirts, mainly because he wasn’t in the mood to listen to them argue about it any _more_ , so the fact that it isn’t pink is a welcome enough surprise.

“I hope it’s the right fit.”

Faris strips his shirt off right in public, hands it over to Josh who stuffs it into the BedMates branded tote bag he’s carrying, and when he pulls on the new one, he finds it to be abysmally big. The sleeves go down past his elbows with the hem reaching his upper thighs.

“It’s perfect.”

“Good,” Harry says. “Right, so I need people on the _regular free stuff_ front, that’s stickers and pins, and then I need people for the _sexy_ front, you pass out the condoms and coupons.”

She’s got one of those little wagons loaded with freebie-stuffed tote bags, Faris only sees that now.

Faris says, “I call the stickers.”

“Great. Izzy, you're on Team Sexy. We need a girl to pass out the condoms.”

“Why?”

Harry raises her eyebrows in an exasperated fashion that makes her look a bit too much like Rhys. “Because. It's just a fact, okay, not everyone is comfortable with guys giving them free condoms.”

“I call Team Sexy and the wagon,” Josh says.

Joe says, “I'm Team Stickers.”

“Right. Good we sorted that out.” Harry pulls a half-empty bottle of water from the wagon to take a huge swig, and she says, “Look. Team Normal, your merchandise isn't branded with BedMates or anything, it's just made to look cute, so you just pass these out to anyone, understood?”

Faris shrugs.

“Team Sexy,” Harry says next. “ _Please_ stick to giving your coupons to people who look over eighteen.”

–

Maybe Pride isn't _that_ bad.

They'd said goodbye to Harry ten minutes before the parade was set to start, since she's still got to help Rhys finish setting up their booth in Trafalgar Square. Josh already managed to make about ten new friends in the crowd by the time and Faris, despite himself, spent twenty minutes scrolling through his Facebook feed. There'd been another few arrests since Wednesday, at a peaceful vigil for Sam Dumont somewhere in South London, and apparently there's several parallel protests across the North on today. He figures it could be worse.

The movement of the parade only kicks off at their segment when it's ten past one and Faris already feels himself on the verge of roasting in his boots and skinny fits.

“Come on,” Josh shouts over the truck in front of them that's been blaring Scissor Sisters for what feels like the past half hour. “Put on your _party face_.”

Faris shouts back, “I'm really warm.”

Josh only gives him a crooked, somewhat pitiful smile. “Come here.”

He snakes one hand into Faris' tote bag of stickers, BedMates pink with rainbow and pride-flag-coloured hearts on them, and pulls out two of them.

“Hold still.”

Faris obediently holds still, even though he can already guess Josh's only going to put them over his nipples.

“Perfect.”

They're on his nipples, obviously, a rainbow one and a pink-purple-blue bisexual flag one.

“You're so predictable.”

Josh cackles. “Cheer up, emo kid.”

He leans in all the way to press a gross kiss to Faris' lips, just for a second or two. Their noses bump together and it knocks his sunglasses askew, and Josh's mouth tastes like the gum he chews and he smells of sweat and awful Lynx. Faris is vaguely aware of the wolf-whistles coming from the group behind them, but he's so much more aware of Josh himself, even if the moment's over as quickly as it came.

“Better,” Faris says.

“Come on,” Josh yells over the music. “Let's dance.”

Finally, the sluggish movement of the parade speeds up, to the point where they actually have to start moving. Faris might as well dance. He doesn't normally do this, especially not when he's stone cold sober, but Josh is screaming along to the lyrics of “Take Your Mama Out Tonight”, and he keeps giving Faris the most expectant look. So Faris figures all he really has to do is move his arms and wiggle his hips, and odds are he doesn't look much more ridiculous than Josh doing it.

The music could be much worse, really. Faris focusses on handing out his stickers to kids who are there with their parents and teens with glitter on their faces, anyone who he figures isn't going to look at him too strangely. At least three of the kids tell him in return that they like his hair or the bats tattooed on his wrist, and he lets a girl in an indie band tee pour a vial of gold sparkles over his head when she insists that he needs more glitter. Well, he couldn't really argue with that.

“You're having fun,” Josh shouts over to him when they've made it through Oxford Circus and the truck in front of them is playing some decade-old Sugababes song.

“Maybe,” Faris shouts back. He makes a point of keeping his voice as monotone as he possibly can. “A little bit.”

Josh visibly snorts when he laughs. “That's a start.”

Faris laughs back and makes a motion to peel his jeans away from where they're glued to his kneepits with sweat.

The heat doesn't truly get to him until they're out of Piccadilly Circus and on Waterloo Place, when according to Faris’ phone it's been over two hours since the beginning of the parade. His hair is sticking to his forehead the way his shirt is sticking to his torso the way his skinny fits are sticking to his thighs, drenched with sweat much like how it’s flowing down into his eyes underneath the sunglasses. Faris opens the icebox on the wagon to pull out a bottle of water.

Josh asks, “Okay?”

“I’m not suited to this type of weather,” Faris shouts back.

The water’s too cold in his hand, an uncanny contrast between his sweaty palms, but he makes to unscrew it as quickly as possible.

“What?” Josh shouts, and then, “It’s so loud.”

At least, Faris thinks that’s what he’s saying. “I’m okay,” he simply shouts back, even if he’s very obviously not okay.

His feet feel raw in the black leather of his boots, raw and hot and marinating in their own sweat. Faris really doesn’t want to think about cooking when his legs also feel like they’re being boiled within the sweat-damp material of his jeans.

Finally, finally the water bottle complies, even if he drops the cap just as immediately and doesn’t get to pick it up. He gags when he chugs back the first swig, and that’s not just because of the chill.

“You look terrible, mate,” Josh insists through the music.

Faris just keeps on drinking and drinking, only vaguely aware that a good portion of the water spills past his mouth and onto his shirt instead.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna leave the parade? It’s fine if you do.”

“I’m fine,” Faris shouts back, but his sunglasses slip down his nose from both the movement and the sweat.

The stark-naked sunlight hits his eyes, then, and Faris recoils before he even really understands it. Like being slapped across the face, the pain singes through his eyes and into his head. A red like the back of his eyelids floods his vision before he can manoeuvre the glasses back where they belong. His throat feels constricted when he goes back for the water, gripped in a chokehold.

Once again, Faris assumes it's merely the meds. He needs to get the dosage adjusted, he just needs another fifty milligrams of Seroquel. Fifty milligrams is five tens, every ten is composed of two fives, one, two, three, four, five, and then.

Then his gag reflex finally goes off and he only barely misses his shoes when the first fountain of sick comes spewing out.

It’s not so much painful as it’s just out-and-out gross, two swells worth of puke-tinged stale water before the chewed-up bits of last night’s dinner come out with it. Still, his eyes invariably well up with tears behind his sunnies.

_Don’t drop the sunglasses don’t drop the sunglasses don’t drop the sunglasses don’t drop the sunglasses don’t drop the sunglasses._

Somewhere in the all-encompassing wall of music, Joe says, “Jesus Christ.”

His sister says, “That’s not healthy.”

“Are you okay?” Josh shouts once again, and before Faris knows it, he’s being steered over towards the metal barrier. “You can walk, right?”

“Yeah,” Faris says back, but it comes out sounding feebler than he’d expected. The inside of his mouth tastes like bile. “Obviously. I can walk.”

Some of the coppers keeping watch over the parade open up the fencing to let him in, and Josh shoves him ahead before he can change his mind.

“Listen,” Josh shouts. “You should just go home, or the A+E if you still feel bad, I’ve got stuff to do.”

The flowers on his head have gone askew, the teased part of his hair turned into a strange star-shaped cloud. With the sunlight behind him, it gives him the appearance of a halo.

For lack of anything else to say, Faris says, “Okay.”

“Text me when you get home. Okay?”

“Okay,” Faris says once again.

Josh leans over the fence for an awkward hug around the shoulders and two kisses pressed onto his cheeks. “I’m off,” he shouts, and he’s running down the road to catch up.

Well, Faris feels decidedly less relieved as soon as the realisation catches up with him that he’s stuck behind a fence with ten feet worth of crowd between him and the pavement.

“Excuse me.”

“You alright, Luv?” a mum with one of those red Stonewall t-shirts and two little blonde children asks in response. “Want some water?”

“Yeah, cheers,” Faris says, and she hands him a still-sealed bottle.

“Why’re you so tall?” the shorter of the two kids, a boy with a rainbow flower chain around his neck, asks.

“That’s a good question,” Faris says back. He bends down a little ways to be closer to both kids’ eye level, and he reaches one hand into the tote bag he’s still carrying to pull out a handful of rainbow hearts. “Here. Have some stickers.”

He turns back to the mum after he’s taken a good swig of the water, and he says, “Thanks, Ma’am.”

“It’s no problem, keep it.”

She plants her hand on his arm and Faris is surprised by how cold it is compared to his skin. Only then does he notice the stench of petrol and rotting that clings to her.

“How’s your pulse? D’you feel cold?”

Faris has to think about it before he can answer. “Weak.”

“Could be heat exhaustion.” She thumbs his arm more determinedly, the soft part below the elbow, and says, “You need to drink more water.”

“I’m really… really warm, actually.” Faris presses his free hand to his forehead, underneath his fringe, and says, “I’m on some really intense medication, I think it’s a side effect.” He throws another glance down at the water bottle and adds, “Thank you again, Ma’am. I think I’ll go home now.”

After he’s made his way out of the crowd, Faris sits on the shady front steps of a building some hundred feet down the street. He finishes drinking his bottle of water, until his body has cooled down enough that he can _actually_ go home. From afar, he watches what’s left of the parade pass, but even when he presses the heels of his hands onto his forehead, he can’t get rid of the migraine headache pounding inside his skull.

Faris takes the Tube from Piccadilly to Oxford Circus, then the Victoria Line to Highbury & Islington and the overground train. Even then, he still has to walk the ten minutes back home. He takes his second shower of the day and drinks an entire bottle of water, before he orders himself a kebab from the place down the road. Finally, he texts Josh.

_I made it home and I’m ok_

_where are you?_

He has to wait for about twenty minutes for Josh’s reply to buzz into his phone, long enough for him to get his kebab from the delivery guy, and far longer than usual.

_were still in trafalgar sq sorry traffic on our booth is crazy. you coming OUT tonight?_

For a moment, the second part of the message appears cryptic, what’s with the random capitals, until Faris recalls that O-U-T is the name of the club Rhys is doing their DJ set at tonight, one of the big places in Soho.

_Ill stay home tonight i think. but text me if you need somewhere to stay_

Josh sends back one of the sad emojis, the one with the single teardrop. _ok big bird_ , he writes, and before Faris can retaliate, Josh’s sending him a wall of sparkly heart emojis.

_Gayyyyyy_ , Faris writes.

_precisely_ , Josh writes back.

Faris opts to send him a single purple heart emoji.

True to what he wrote, he spends the rest of the evening sitting on the couch. He finds a nature documentary on Netflix and spends some time pretending to watch that, but mostly, Faris scrolls through his phone and tries to resist the temptation of eating all the cold cuts in the fridge.

Harry texts him a photo of Rhys and Mum Webb doing shots of some unholy bright pink liquor, with the caption _TAKE YOUR MAMA OUT ALL NIGHT_. Then, she sends a photo of Josh, still with his ridiculous dyed hair and posing next to a buff bloke in short shorts who appears to be coated in gold paint. Faris decides that maybe it’s time to go to bed.

–

He’s on his way to get the bus to work the next morning when he sees it. One of those hipster restaurants near the bus stop is almost completely surrounded by yellow police tape, a cop car parked on the pavement with the doors ajar.

Faris can smell it from afar, the sweet stink of dead flesh, and his stomach turns at the realisation of what’s happened. The scene is crowded with policemen and other official-looking people, and Faris isn’t sure if he truly wants to stop for a second. His phone says he’s got another five minutes to catch the bus, at least.

“Sir, please keep walking. I can assure you there’s nothing to see here.”

The copper shouting through the megaphone is a tall freckled woman with a brassy voice, baton proudly displayed on her belt. Even from the other side of the street, Faris feels he should probably listen to what she says. Even then, though, he casts a glance downward to see just enough of the tarp-covered lump they’re all crowded around.

–

The article he’s found on Facebook says that at around nine o’clock this morning, parts of a body were found on the steps of Lemon, a restaurant in the London Borough of Hackney. While the police haven’t revealed exactly _what_ body parts have been found, they confirmed in a press release that whatever they were had been completely drained of blood. They’re currently investigating the matter as a suspected act of Vampiric terrorism.

Faris closes out of the app and shuts his phone off, suddenly aware of how the Clonazepam he’d swallowed on the bus this morning is still numbing his affect. He turns his attention to the kebab he’d picked up on his way home instead, all meat with the medium hot sauce that burns in his nostrils.

He’s fully intent on spending the rest of the day how he’d spent last night, especially since James is out on a Tinder date again and odds are he won't be back until tomorrow morning. Faris types in Netflix on his laptop and clicks on a random documentary in his recommendations. After a moment of consideration, he picks his phone back up to text Josh.

_I think I lost control of my life_

The reply comes almost immediately. _hahahaha why_

_Im eating takeaway kebab for the second day in a row_ , Faris writes, and in the next text, _I’m enjoying it_

_you lits eat at greggs every day of your life_ , Josh rightfully points out. _were going to ladyland tonight and rhys is dressing up u should come_

He’s talking about Synthetic Ladyland, the club night in Camden Town where Rhys performs with their Supremes tribute drag act every two months or so. They’re called the Supines, rhymes with _queens_ , and most of the songs they do aren’t actually by the Supremes.

_Ill think about it_ , Faris writes back even if he’s definitely not going to think about it. As much as he appreciates 60s girl groups and as fierce as Rhys looks in their glittery dress and beehive-do wig, he’s not in the mood for the other aspects of clubbing.

He presses the play button on the documentary when he feels like it’s buffered for long enough, and he reaches for his kebab to take another big bite. His phone buzzes with another text from Josh, then. _did you hear abt the body in front of lemon??_

Faris types in, _I literally walked right past it this morning_ , but then deletes it and instead writes a less confrontational, _Yeah I just read about it_

_serves them right imo_ , Josh texts back. _the owner called me a rat once because i was rolling my fags on the steps of his building_

_Josh._ Faris sends another text, _UNCALLED FOR_

_sorryyyyyyyyyy haha. Im mainly just glad they didnt drop the body in front of bedmates you know??_

Faris isn't in the mood to further argue with him. _Make sure you get an uber when you go home tonight_

_if you say so_ , Josh writes, and he ends the text with the sparkling heart emoji once again.

Faris sends back the arrow heart one before he closes his messages and turns his focus fully to his laptop screen.

The documentary he picked is one he'd been meaning to watch for a while, about Vampires' involvement in the miners' strike, even if he now realises that it’s maybe _too_ topical. He missed the first two-odd minutes of the movie, but the beginning tends to be boring as it is. At this moment, the narrator is talking about the political climate that lead up to the strike in the first place. Faris selects the full-screen option, and he leans back against the upholstery and grabs his kebab where he left it on the coffee table, already cooled down to lukewarm.

The documentary goes over the beginning of the strike and the demographics within the workers, some fifty percent Vampires, the solidarity protests around the country and finally the formation of the HLF and other terrorist groups.

“On July 11, four months into the strike and after there had been a spike of severed body parts discovered in bins around the city, a human head and parts of a torso were found on the pavement in front of the Wellington Arch in Central London, a mere hundred metres from Buckingham Palace,” the narrator says. “Radical group Haematophage Liberation Force soon laid claim to this act of terrorism and others that followed in its wake, all of which could be connected by a simple pattern.”

Faris hates parallels.

“While the identified victims varied in age and ethnicity, every single body part was found completely drained of blood.” The narrator's got a smooth, cold voice, the clinical tone of a newsreader talking about a stock market crash. “It's still unclear how exactly the bodies were bled out, as none of the found appendages showed fang marks or other incisions, and as such it's assumed they were simply drained when they were severed with an axe or other large blade. Out of the twenty-six killings claimed by HLF in 1984, none of the bodies showed any signs of pre-mortem violence.”

The film cuts from archive footage to an interview, a Black man with dreadlocks who appears strangely familiar.

“I was six, maybe seven when the strike began,” he says in a similarly familiar voice, deep and resonating and much calmer than the last time Faris thinks he heard that voice.

The man’s canine teeth are sharp and long where they flash from inside his mouth.

“I've lived in East London my whole life, my father used to work on the docks in Greenwich, so I wasn't personally affected by it. One of my earliest memories is attending a solidarity march for the miners along with my family, I remember the Wellington Arch attack happened after that. I remember that day very well.”

The Vampire looks down away from the camera for a moment, as if deep in thought, and a caption pops up on the screen below him. _Samuel Dumont_ , and below that, _Vampire Humanity Activist_. So Faris was right, after all.

Sam Dumont says, “I don't respect what the radicals did, but I do respect the intent they had. It's important for the people to push back when they've been subjugated by a corrupt government for too long, even if I can't condone blatant acts of terrorism.” He pauses for a beat, and he says, “Rations were cut short at around the same time that the coal industry was privatised and the strike began. My family received less than three hundred millilitres of blood a week at the time the attacks were at their highest, which was supposed to feed my parents and three children.”

Faris doesn't know whether it's the tone of his voice or what he's saying that makes him turn up the volume on his headphones.

“My father was a very physically active man. His job involved heavy manual labour and he walked half an hour to and from work every day, and on him, it showed. He used to be a big man, he was six foot five, and after a certain time he just began to waste away. My brothers and I fell ill a lot at the time and my mother had to work longer hours to compensate for the work my father could no longer do.

“I remember very well the day my mother came home with a big bag of blood, which she claimed she got from a butcher, but it didn't taste like animal blood. It tasted just like the human blood rations we got from National Health.”

Once again, Sam Dumont pauses, and this time, Faris can see the guilt in his eyes even through the camera.

“I didn't realise the truth of where it must have really come from until I was nineteen or twenty and doing Vee History at university, at least. But at the time, it saved my family's lives. I remember I came along to the butcher shop once, and I couldn't have been older than nine, it wasn't so much a butcher shop as it was a neon-lit tiled room full of freezers filled with blood bags. My mother had to pay forty pounds for a litre, but that was enough to feed my family for a week, and enough that we could survive on the government rations for the weeks after that.

“It was very strange in retrospect to realise that the men who ran the butchers were members of the HLF, even if I found it an odd coincidence that the last time I passed by it, right after the terrorism prevention act was passed, the shop had been closed down by police forces.”

Right then, Faris' phone vibrates sharply against the glass surface of the coffee table where he'd left it, and he clicks the pause button on reflex. He picks himself up from the sofa as quickly as his limbs will allow it, careful to not trigger a cramp, tangling himself in the headphone cord as he does. That cramp he'd been trying to avoid sneaks up his left leg, then, and he almost drops his laptop for a split second before he catches himself.

To his utmost surprise, the phone is still ringing when he's set the MacBook down on the table and successfully disentangled himself. It's an unknown number. Faris' thumb hovers over the screen for a few more seconds before he decides to swipe left and pick up.

“Faris Badwan,” he says in the least dishevelled voice he can muster up. “Hello?”

“Hello, Faris.”

The voice on the other end is a man's voice. Once again, it feels more familiar than it should.

“Hello,” Faris says again, purely out of reflex. “How'd you get this number?”

“It's not important,” the man says. He's got a smooth, cool voice, a nice voice. “Look, I don't know how to say this. This is really uncomfortable.”

“What's your name?”

“What?” the man asks back.

“Your name.”

“It's Tom.”

“Okay.”

The man, Tom, says, “Look. I said I'm not sure how to tell you this, but we had sex not too long ago. It was an accident, I didn't know it could happen like that, but…”

The sensation that overcomes Faris at the realisation is half terror and half the sensation of being in a dream and realising that it makes no sense, the realisation that his meds are maybe not strong enough. He thinks about Rhys' speech about sexual health and protection that they give at the beginning of every Sleepover, about all the brochures they keep lying on the counter at the shop. His brain aches from the inside with every single irrational thought he's attempting to suppress.

Finally, after a second that felt like ten, Tom says, “I'm a Vampire, it's possible I infected you. You should get tested.”

Just like that, he's hanged up.

Well, Faris feels that much more like he's in a fever dream at that second.


	6. bloodline

_Are you still out partying?_

Faris finished his documentary after he put the phone down and then turned to old episodes of Absolutely Fabulous, even if he only managed to halfway focus throughout it all. He took another Clonazepam, and now Josh’s not answering his texts.

Time to send another one. _I’m bored you should come over_

Not a minute after he sent it, Josh replies with what’s not so much a proper reply as it’s a picture of Rhys sitting bridal style in twinky Joe’s arms, floor-length sparkly dress cascading down and all. Then he texts,

_im on the nightbus now actually the music sucked and rhys wouldnt buy me pints x_

_Ok ill come pick you up._ Then, Faris sends a second text, _Twinky Joe doesnt look that strong_

 _he dropped them right on their ass after i took this_ , Josh writes back, with the crying-laughing emoji attached. _ill be at your stop in 10 i think?_

_Okay_

Faris eats another two slices of cold cuts from the fridge before he finds his boots and jacket. He pockets his fags, his wallet and phone, and after a second of consideration, he takes the switchblade he bought at an antiquities shop last year, just in case. The blade’s worn blunt over the years, but the weight in his pocket gives him a sense of safety, at least.

The bus stop’s only down the road and around the corner, two hundred steps, that’s five sets of fives times eight, and the night bus stops there at twenty minutes past midnight which is four times five. It all makes perfect sense.

Josh gets off when Faris arrives, in his usual blazer and t-shirt that he somehow thinks is considered dressy. His fringe is still a bit pink and blue at the tips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Josh says, and he pulls Faris into a hug before he can resist. “You okay?”

“I guess.” Faris shrugs as they start walking up the road. “You know, the brain.”

“The almighty brain.” Josh raises his eyebrows and pulls out his fags to light one.

“The disorder.”

The street is deserted even by Sunday night standards, and so Faris reaches out his hand to take Josh’s before even really thinking about it. It’s all very comforting in a way that his mum’s food or stopping by at BedMates after a hellish shift at work is. Besides, nobody’s there to see them either way.

“Is Straight James the flatmate home tonight?”

Faris shrugs. “He’s out at some club with a bird, I think.”

“There’s straight clubs that are open this weekend,” Josh says, and he somehow makes it sound like both a question and an observation. “That’s disgusting.”

“You know straight people can’t help the way they were born,” Faris says. “Give me your fag.”

They stop at the off-license next to the kebab shop to buy a bottle of coke at a ludicrously inflated price, because Josh insists that he wants another drink and Faris thinks he’s got a bottle of Jim Beam hidden somewhere in the kitchen cabinet. Besides, he could really do with a strong drink himself, and he had to turn down Josh’s original suggestion of buying some cans of Stella because beer makes him feel ill.

He gets out the wine glasses once they’re back at the flat, and says, “Fancy,” when Josh laughs at him for it. While he’s at it, he grabs a bag of Walkers salt-and-vinegar. They sit on the bed with only the bedside lamp on, and Faris mixes his first drink two parts whiskey to one part coke.

“Drunkard.”

“I’ve had a rough day.” Faris swivels the dark liquid inside his glass to look pretentious, or maybe like a villain from a bad movie. He’s not sure. “Rough whole weekend.”

Josh cacklesnorts and goes to mix his own drink, which has a more reasonable fifty-fifty ratio.

“D’you mind if I smoke in here?”

“Landlord doesn’t like it.” His whiskey and coke tastes approximately like how rubbing alcohol smells, but Faris wills to ignore it.

Faris’ landlord is a tall clean-cut white man who wears square-shouldered suits and speaks with a strong accent. Faris has absolutely no idea where he’s from, but he could probably have both Faris and James killed by the mafia if they ever fell behind on the rent, so it’s best to stay on his good side.

“The mob boss,” Josh says and sips his drink in an exaggerated imitation of someone at a wine tasting, which he probably thinks is funny. And he says, “So. Your brain.”

“My brain, alright,” Faris says back, not quite sure what Josh is getting at. He leans against the wall but misjudges his body, and as such, the back of his skull smacks right against it. “Ouch.”

Josh holds a hand in front of his face in a poor attempt to hide his laugh, and Faris sticks two fingers up at him.

“So, what happened to you at Pride, exactly?” Josh asks then. “If you don’t mind saying.”

“Well.”

In the dim yellow light of the lamp, Josh looks fuzzy at the edges and papery at the same time. The drink in their glasses is dark like how blood looks in a vial, which is the last thing Faris wants to think about.

“It wasn’t a _brain_ thing, really, I don’t think. My brain doesn’t make me throw up randomly in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.”

Josh makes a noise. “Might make you puke on Waterloo Place, though.”

Faris swats at his knee where he’s sitting Indian style. “I’d thought it could have been heat exhaustion ‘til I actually looked it up.”

He used the WebMD symptom checker, of course he did.

“And?” Josh sips what’s left of his drink and goes to unscrew the bottle of Jim to pour himself some more.

“And, my symptoms all matched. Weak pulse, sweating, vomiting, muscle cramps.”

“You’re always cramping,” Josh helpfully points out.

Faris doesn’t bother to acknowledge it. “Except I was really warm at the same time. Heat exhaustion’s meant to make you feel _cold_.”

Josh shrugs and fills the rest of his glass up with coke.

“Give me that.”

For a while, they drink in silence, and when Faris mixes his second drink, he uses a ratio of one part whiskey and three parts coke. Josh puts on one of those Spotify indie playlists so the sound of a Strokes song comes from the tinny speakers of his phone, and it’s peaceful, _smoking weed in Rhys’ living room_ level peaceful. Outside, the clouds finally crack and the static of the rainfall mingles with whatever Julian Casablancas is singing about.

Josh holds his wine glass close to his chest with his pinkie finger stuck out, the most serene drunken expression on his face. Faris could just stare at his face for the rest of his life. He figures that maybe he should relax, at least for the moment.

“I like that smell,” Josh finally says and fills his glass up with coke. “That rain smell.”

“You know it’s just like… the moisture making the smell apparent or whatever.”

The rain smells like the garbage outside and vaguely like wet dog. Faris goes for the whiskey, and upon the realisation that Josh finished the coke already, only pours in about a swig’s worth.

“Nerd,” Josh says. “Is it better now? Your brain?”

“Am relaxed as can be.” Faris downs his whiskey and almost coughs at the burn, and he says, “Still bored, though.”

“ _Ouch._ ” Josh pulls his best hurt face, and it's almost convincing until he snorts. “Where do I put my empty glass? Your desk?”

“Yeah, just. Just put it on there.” Faris looks down at his own glass, now empty, and decides he'll hold onto it a bit longer for the sake of holding it.

He watches Josh stretch across the bed to reach and set the glass down, but it's a second too late that Faris realises he put it too closely to the edge, or for that matter, until Josh realises.

The glass crashes neatly to the floor and shatters with a nasty sound.

“Oh shit.”

“Shit, I'm sorry,” Josh exclaims.

“It's okay. Let me just.”

Faris is careful when he climbs off the bed to find the dustpan, even if the drunkenness immediately sneaks up on him as soon as he's gotten up. His head spins, even when he presses one palm to his forehead to steady himself, but he somehow makes it to the kitchen and back unscathed.

“You don't need to be doing this,” Josh insists from where he's still sitting on the bed. His face looks unusually pale around the nose, but Faris isn't going to question it. “I'm the one who broke it.”

“No, I,” Faris starts before he goes to look for the word. “I _insist_. You're the guest after all.”

He finishes sweeping up the shambles and unceremoniously dumps them into the bin he keeps under his desk.

“You look bad,” Faris states very flatly when he crawls back onto the mattress. “Your face.”

“I don't.”

“Like you're terrified out your wits,” Faris insists. So much for _not_ putting his foot in his mouth.

Josh's mouth is right in front of his, though. Kissing distance.

“It's okay.”

Faris leans in and pecks Josh's smushy soft lips, even if Josh very clearly tries to suppress a cackle during it.

“You don't have to explain if you don't want to.”

“I don't,” Josh says back.

He scoots down the bed until he can lay down properly on the pillow, and with one hand, he pulls Faris down by the nape of his neck. Suddenly, Faris feels entirely pulled out of his body and the situation he'd expected. Not that he can blame Josh for wanting to change the topic. His head spins with the sudden movement, though.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Josh says, and he pulls Faris in for a _real_ kiss.

His mouth tastes like coke, still, or maybe Faris is imagining that. It's surprisingly not gross.

Josh says, “Let's get naked.”

–

Faris carries on with his life normally after that, of course he does.

He makes Josh cheesy toast and bacon the morning after, and they ride the bus together for four stops when Faris is on his way to work. He works the first half of his shift, gets his Steak Bake from Greggs and does the second half, and after, he takes the bus back to BedMates. That's how it goes for the rest of the week.

Faris absolutely, positively has himself in check. He checks his phone again during his lunch break on the following day, to make sure that call wasn't merely a product of his hallucinations. There it is, the unknown number. Faris saves it to his contacts as _Tom (DO NOT PICK UP)_ , just to keep himself organised.

He reasons, very logically, that he's got a reasonable fear of being infected with an illness, especially what's with Josh consistently insinuating he could be a Vampire. He's seen enough movies to see the _you should get tested_ conversation played out a hundred times over. It's absolutely logical to assume he received a call that went to the wrong number, or a telemarketer, and his brain did the rest. He's psychotic, not completely ignorant of how the world works.

Right now, it's the Monday a day and a week after that phone call, and Faris has finished his four-hour shift. He got Harry to pick him up from work and drive him to the clinic, and now he's waiting to be called in for his blood test.

Faris hates waiting rooms. Always has, even when he was only a kid getting routine check-ups and flu shots. This one is especially desolate, white walls and upholstered seats with a pattern that vaguely resembles the proverbial grandmother's ugly carpet. More than that, the air conditioning is shot.

On the wall across the room hang three equally bland public service announcement posters. Faris only really pays attention to the middle one, a red one with the big caption _After a Recent Blood Transfusion…_ The text underneath is too tiny for him to read from there, but at the very bottom, next to the NHS logo, it reads, _Get Tested for CBHS Today_.

Faris says, “I think someone's trying to pull my leg.”

Harry looks up questioningly from the month-old issue of _Hello_ magazine she's pretending to read.

“I got a phone call the other night about how I should get tested for that.” Faris points towards the poster. “Vampirism.”

“And you think it's just a prank call?”

“It's either that or it's my brain trying to fuck with me.” He says, “My intrusive thoughts got a lot worse recently. I need to up my dosage.”

“You did sleep with that Vee girl at the last Sleepover, didn't you?” Harry asks.

“We used protection the whole time. Like, I licked her through a sheet of latex.”

“Ew.”

“And I don't think it's sexually transmissive either way.” Faris thinks back to his biology GCSE, other than direct infection through the bite, the venom is contained in the blood, saliva and stomach acid. Contact with the blood stream is necessary for infection to take place.

Harry corrects him, “Sexually transmitted.”

Faris shrugs.

The nurse calls his name from inside the office, and Faris picks himself up off his chair.

“I'll wait in the car.”

It's always the same nurse doing the blood samples, Faris has noticed that. She's a waifish little thing with wispy blonde hair and a silver cross necklace on her neck who can't possibly weigh more than ninety pounds, but she pulls the tourniquet taut around his arm like someone twice her size.

“How's everything, Mr Badwan?” she asks while her fingers knead the inside of his elbow in search of the big vein. Faris has notoriously difficult to find veins.

“You know. Life.” Faris says, “I still work in retail, but it's fine.”

“Any complaints with your medication? Side effects?”

“No side effects. I think my antipsychotic dosage needs to be adjusted 'cause I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating again.”

“You'll be able to discuss that at your next appointment with Doctor Boland-Nash,” the nurse diplomatically says. Just like that, she's shoved the needle into his arm.

“Did you find it?” Faris asks. His eyes stay pointedly fixed at the poster across the wall from him, which is decorated with a collection of cartoon posters of doctors and patients.

“Appears so.” The nurse attaches the vial to the needle, and Faris turns his head to watch the red liquid spill into it. “Found it soon enough.”

“My appointment's not until October,” Faris says, more to himself than anything.

The nurse ignores it in turn. “Your file also says you're behind on your biannual NVBT donation,” she says, all while she removes the first vial filled with blood to attach a second in its place.

The National Vee Blood Trust, what one of the other PSA posters was about.

“Would you like to make your appointment for that while you're here?”

“Actually,” Faris says. “I know it's probably nothing, but could you test my blood for that, while you're at it? Haemovore Syndrome.”

“Congenital Bloodbourne Haemovore Syndrome,” the nurse corrects. “Very well. I'll have to take another sample for that.”

Faris _hates_ the cracking sound it makes whenever she opens a new vial.

“National Health covers the test, but we don't do the testing locally, the samples are mailed out to Scotland.”

“Scotland,” Faris replies. “But you've still got the poster.”

Again, the nurse pretends to not have heard his comment. “It's all centralised there, and it'll be about ten days until we get back the results.”

“Okay.”

Faris looks away when the nurse removes the needle from his vein and sticks a band-aid on there, and he presses down on it when she says to press down. He's got an unbearable craving for copper pennies again.

–

On the BedMates website, under the customer service section, they've got a paragraph with the heading _WHAT VAMPIRE POSITIVITY MEANS TO US_.

In a darker shade of the particular BedMates hue of pink, it reads, _BedMates is a labour of love. We're a small business, and as such we don't have the available resources to regularly open our shop at hours suited to a nocturnal schedule. To accommodate any Vee customers who want to visit us in person, however, we stay open until 11:00 pm every second Wednesday of the month._

Today's the second Thursday of the month, and Rhys is keeping the shop open late once again. They've done this before, a few times, usually for high-profile customers who wanted to be advised on their sex toys in person but not run the risk of being recognised. Actually, once about a year ago the curly one from One Direction came in to buy nipple clamps and rope. Rhys had his bodyguard take a picture of them together, which is now stuck to the wall behind the cash register somewhere in the massive collage of flyers and posters.

“You have any idea who it is this time?” Faris asks from where he's sitting on the couch.

“What?” Josh asks back. He's standing right at the living room window overlooking the street, which makes the fact that they're spying on the mystery customer not subtle at all.

“Your customer?”

Faris looks down at the roach of the spliff they shared, a small stub that barely fits into his fingers, and takes one more drag before he grinds it out in the ashtray on the coffee table.

“Nah.” Josh rolls up a forkful of noodles from the Pot Noodle he's holding with the other hand, Piri-Piri Chicken flavour. Now that he's not looking out the window, he asks, “What'd you do to my spliff?”

“It was smoked up,” Faris says back. He points towards the ashtray and says, “It's in there.”

“You _monster_.”

Faris can smell the artificial chicken and spice from here, and it makes his stomach turn, so he points his finger to Josh's pot noodle next. “Why d'you still eat those?”

“They're tasty.”

Josh goes for another forkful, but this time it takes him much longer to successfully get it into his mouth. A stray noodle slips out from between his lips and he sucks it up. Faris pretends to not look.

“I put extra hot sauce in mine. Tastes like it could singe my eyebrows off.”

Faris only shakes his head. “You literally disgust me.”

“Thank you.” Josh leans back against the windowsill, and he proceeds to fork about in his Styrofoam container.

They've got the TV on silent because Josh wanted to watch some dreadful show, but now that's long over and neither of them bothered with changing the channel or turning it off altogether. Faris grabs for the remote and starts flipping through the programs, just to have something to do with his hands, until he gets stuck on BBC News.

There had been another two instances of body parts found, in front of a hotel in Wembley and, just this morning, somewhere in the Docklands. Faris reads about it in the ticker at the bottom of the screen as he watches a dishevelled police commander move his lips to a statement. His face is too doughy and his teeth too large for his head, which makes him look like a grotesque caricature of a human.

“What if it's, like… Judi Dench?”

“What?”

“The mystery customer,” Josh says. He walks over to the kitchenette to place his Pot Noodle in the bin.

“You really think Judi Dench would shop at BedMates?”

“Why not?”

Josh puts his fork in the sink and goes to wash his hands, and he pulls a Wispa bar out from one of the cabinets. Faris really would be hungrier if that overwhelming taste of copper pennies wasn't there once again, so he finds his wallet in his pocket and pops a 2p piece into his mouth.

“Jesus,” Josh says as he takes a seat on the other side of the sofa. “Are you still doing that?” He arranges his legs one crossed over the other to be more comfortable and says, “I think Dame Judi would appreciate a nice Rabbit.”

Faris, despite himself, almost chokes on his penny when he laughs. From the street outside, the hum of a motor increases in a crescendo before it stops.

“Josh. Car.”

Josh's eyebrows go up for a split second before he bothers to pick himself up from the couch. He's at the window first, still, and Faris is going to pretend that's because Josh was closer to begin with, and not because of the head rush he gets when he stands up, or the cramp he gets in his shoulder, for that matter. Either way, he gets there just in time to watch whoever the mystery customer presumably is get out of their car.

The car's an older model that Faris can't place the make of, sleek and black so it wouldn't be out of place in an old movie or a perfume commercial.

“That's a limousine,” Josh says. “It's Dame Judi.”

“That's _not_ a limousine,” Faris says. “It's just a nice car.”

It's the exact type of car he would've imagined the person who gets out to have.

“Josh,” he says. “Let's go downstairs. I want a fag.”

They've been waiting on the pavement for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes when the door to the shop opens once again.

Tonight's a mild night following a muggy rainy day, and the air still smells like rain, the streets washed clean. The stink of rot is much less prominent here, no black garbage bags sunken into themselves out in front of the houses. Still, Faris can't help but feel deeply unsettled being outside at this hour.

Cat steps outside, black sunglasses hiding much of her face and giving her the appearance of a bug-eyed alien. Either way, Faris is positive it's her.

“Cat?”

“Faris?” she asks back. Even through both their sunglasses, Faris swears he can tell her face slipping for just a split second. Then, matter-of-fact, she says, “You're here.”

“Yeah, I am.” Faris slots his hands into his pockets, even if they're already too crowded with his cigs and phone as it is. “What brings you here?”

“Well, mainly I wanted a new strap-on,” Cat says, non-committal. “Some supplies, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that.” Faris doesn't know what to say.

“Who's your friend?”

“What?” Faris asks, before he remembers Josh's still sitting on the doorstep right behind him. “This is Josh, he's a boy. He works at BedMates. Josh, this is Cat, we met at Sleepover two weeks ago.”

Josh picks himself up to shake Cat's hand. “Hi,” he says, and he adds, in his stupid nonchalant way, “I'm shagging him.”

Faris invariably feels his face go from cold to hot in a matter of seconds. “You'll have to excuse him,” he says. “He's smoked something.”

Josh says, “I'm always like this.”

Cat only laughs. She seems much less imposing like this, even if she's wearing heels that somewhat shrink the difference between them.

“Pretty brave of you to go out and buy your toys this late in the evening,” Josh says, then. “Lest you might get snatched and chopped up by some haemo. You look like you'd be tasty, too.”

Faris is reasonably sure all the blood that just rushed into his face now completely drains from him.

Cat says, “You're aware that I'm one of those scary haemos you mention, right?”

Faris says, “ _Josh_.”

Josh says, “I'll leave you guys alone now.”

Just like that, he's off back inside. Faris can hear him trample up the stairs despite the closed door.

For a second, it's silent. Faris pulls out his fags and lights one. Even with the nicotine clouding his lungs and brain, he can't help but feel that the stench of petrol and rot that follows Cat is stronger now.

“I'm sorry about him,” Faris says.

“Was that your boyfriend?”

“What?” Faris abruptly remembers what he said about Josh the last time he spoke to her. “Yeah, that's him. He says a lot of gross things without thinking about it.”

He takes a drag from his fag when he realises that maybe he should offer one to Cat, too. It's just common courtesy.

“Sorry, did you want a smoke, too? 'cause I'd let you bum one.”

“Cheers. I don't smoke,” Cat says. Whatever is inside her carrier bag rhythmically clatters when she folds her arms in front of her middle. She's wearing one of those witchy black dresses again.

“Oh, okay.” Faris goes to sit on the stoop in front of the door where Josh had just been sitting, the stone still slightly warm in the spot he'd had his arse. “He's actually a pretty smart guy. Josh. He's got a degree in physics and all.”

Cat laughs, a short, spiteful laugh. “He's still spewing haemophobic bullshit, so.”

“I'm not saying he's not completely ignorant,” Faris says. “Just saying.”

“He's a bigot with a degree.”

Faris bursts out into a short bout of laughter and immediately feels kind of bad for it.

“And still you're friends with him?”

“Yeah,” Faris says. “I guess.”

Cat smiles, closed-mouthed. On her, it looks strange. “How'd you guys meet?”

“Funny story.” Faris looks down at his fag in his hand and twirls it between his fingers, and he says, “Basically it took me like… a really long time to admit to myself that I like men, like, five years at least until I got to a point where I couldn't deny it anymore. So I thought it'd maybe be less _scary_ if I just read about it for now, you know? To get acquainted to it?”

Cat nods understandingly.

“So I went to the gay book shop near St Pancras, and that's where I met Josh the same day, and he'd just come out, too, so… we exchanged numbers, and he took me clubbing the next weekend, and that's how I met Rhys and Harry, too.”

Faris rubs the tip of his boot into the pavement, since it's already well-worn as it is. He realises his story didn’t really need that many words to tell it, and he says, “That's pretty much it.”

“That's cute,” Cat says with a strange hollow undertone in her voice. Faris looks at her shoes, which are shiny and completely free of any scuff marks or flecks of dirt. “Speaking of clubbing.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you think it over whether you're coming to Carnival of Sins or not?”

Faris huffs. He had completely forgotten about that. “Probably.” He takes a long drag from his cig and then says, “I mean, I'm not a person who really likes clubs, 'cause they usually play shit music.” As soon as he realises that's not something to usually say during small talk, he cracks a fake grin.

Cat only laughs. “Well, the next one is on next Saturday. Not this Saturday, the one after it.”

“The eighteenth?”

“It's every first and third Saturday of the month,” Cat says. “I'm not always there but it'd be nice to see you again at some point.”

Faris thinks, _there's always Sleepover_ , but that's maybe a little too direct, and obviously implies that he wants to shag her again. Not that he wouldn't like to, of course.

“I'll definitely think it over,” he says instead.

It's quiet for a few seconds, but Cat doesn't look like she's got something to say or like she's about to leave. Faris can't think of anything, so he pushes his fag out on the doorstep and coughs. Behind the BedMates display window, there's still light burning. He doesn't know if he'd rather have Rhys and Harry take their time or will them to come out to give him a way to get out of the vague discomfort of this situation. There's one especially uncomfortable question that sits at the back of his head, and he figures he might as well say it aloud.

“Cat?” he asks, just to ensure her attention is still on him. “Why did you think I was Vee?”

“What?”

“At the Sleepover, when you assumed I was a Vampire like you. Why did you think that?”

The question feels so much more ominous now that he's said it aloud, even more so against the quiet night air. For a second, he's worried Cat's not going to give him an actual answer.

She makes an indefinable noise through her tight lips. “It's 'because you absolutely reeked of venom. You still do.”

Faris says, “Oh.” And then, “Venom has a smell?”

“Yeah, most people don't pick up on it. It's like… the smell of decay, but if it was flammable, like rubbing alcohol or something.”

“I thought it was more like petrol that's gone off,” Faris says. Then, again, he says, “Oh.”

–

Faris goes back inside when he's said goodbye to Cat and when Harry and Rhys have closed the shop up for good. A thin flicker of light comes out from under Josh's door when he's walked up the stairs, so he figures he should probably just go straight inside.

Harry says, “Put on music if you're gonna shag,” and Faris sticks two fingers up at her.

Josh's sitting at the top end of the bed, Macbook in his lap and bulky headphones on his ears. He looks up when the door opens, and when Faris demonstratively waves at him and sits on the other end of the bed.

“Hey mate,” Faris says, fully aware Josh probably doesn't hear it

“Hey,” Josh says back without removing his headphones. A moment later, the tinny echo of whatever song he's listening to stops.

“You coding?”

Josh shakes his head, barely perceptible. “Just reading.” He pulls the headphones down to rest around his neck, unplugs them and says, “It's like this Frerard where Gerard is a priest and they ride around in a van, it's really good.” Only then, he shuts the laptop and stands it up against the side of the bed.

Faris says, “I don't want to hear about your weird band fics.” He laughs hollowly up into the air. Some part of him is dimly aware that he's still _stoned_ on some level, even if most of it's faded away by now.

“So… you were acting really flirty with that girl out there, you know?”

“What?” Faris asks back.

Josh says, “I watched you from the window.” It sounds slightly too bitter, that is to say, the fact that it sounds bitter at all is too much. He stretches out his legs to push against Faris' thigh, he's changed into his trackies and an old t-shirt in the meantime. “You even hugged her goodbye and all.”

“I was just being friendly.” Faris sinks down deeper against the wall. His jeans feel uncomfortable of all sudden. “Are you jealous?”

“You did have sex with her,” Josh says. “Didn't you?”

“Sleepover, yeah,” Faris says. “You sucked eight dicks at Sleepover once.”

Josh makes a dissatisfied sound and goes to lie on his back, so his feet are all the way in Faris' lap now.

“I mean, it doesn't mean anything.” Faris goes to rub Josh's sole, purely out of habit. “Cat's nice. She seems cool, but I wouldn't go out with her or anything.”

Josh makes a noise that's assured as much as it's questioning. He's wearing socks with stripes on them, and his feet are _pleasantly_ sweaty under Faris' fingers, really.

“I'm pretty sure she's, like, thirty. At the very least.”

“Rhys is thirty-two and Joe's dating them,” Josh points out. While true, it isn't really a valid point.

“Joe's a _twink_ ,” Faris says back, which isn't a valid point either.

He rubs his thumb into the hollow of Josh's foot, the soft part, like that massage technique. Reflexology, he thinks, it's called.

“You should calm down.”

“You're bribing me with _foot rubs_ ,” Josh says, but he does let his eyes drop shut and make a strange satisfied noise. “I can't stay mad at you.”

Faris only laughs.

“Piss off,” Josh insists, ever defiant.

“You don't mean that,” Faris says back. The sound Josh makes when Faris continues to squeeze his foot is more than enough proof of that.

“I _wish_ I could stay mad at you,” Josh says once again. He scratches at his thigh through his trackies and digs his heel deeper into Faris' thigh. “Keep rubbing my feet, manservant.”

 _Manservant_. Faris isn't sure if he's okay with that title or not, but he obliges. He stares at Gerard Way's weird make-up-covered face on the opposing wall for a bit, a poster from an issue of Kerrang that has to be around ten years old, give or take… Actually, Faris is sure he owned that exact poster when he was fourteen.

“Cat invited me to this fetish club in Camden,” he says, then. “I actually thought we could go together.”

“You mean, like, a club where people wee on each other.”

Josh sniggers at his own reference, and Faris can't help but let a laugh slip out in turn. He looks down over at Josh's face, redder than usual with the leftover high, his hair spread out in a bizarre crest across the pillow. His expression seems truly content in an intoxicated way, any smidgen of that strange petty jealousy now gone.

“She said it's really tame, I guess. No sex, no nudity or anything,” Faris says. He really did talk about this some more to Cat, or at least, he tried to focus on her words when she talked about it. “The next one's on the eighteenth, she said.”

“The eighteenth is my sister's birthday party.” Josh crosses his arms behind his head. “Remember?”

“What?” Faris remembers as soon as it's out of his mouth. He says, “Right.”

“You said you'd come there with me 'cause if you don't I'll probably murder my whole family on accident,” Josh says, and he makes a point of kicking Faris' thigh. “Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Faris says, gripping onto Josh's calf. Well, now he does. “I said I'd think about it.”

“And?”

“I'll come along with you, in that case,” Faris says. “But only for the free food.”

Josh cackles, the low, crackling cackle he has. “We'll just go to that fetish place some other time.”

“Maybe.”


	7. swelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over Arabic for translation.

The next body is found on the South Bank, right in front of the big wheel. Faris reads the news article during his lunch break while he's sitting outside Greggs. The aluminium of his chair has turned scalding hot in the sun, and the light is blinding to the point that he has to turn the brightness on his phone all the way up just to make out the words.

_Police have identified the dead as Conservative MP Robert Jacob Clarke._

Faris' stomach automatically turns as he reads it, and then some more when he reads that the corpse was discovered yesterday morning right next to a _#TWOSHOTS_ mural. He thinks back to Sam Dumont's words at the protest, “This is exactly what you've been doing to us.” Still, he can't stop it when his throat tightens and his heartbeat becomes too big for his chest. It's a primal response, a deeply buried instinct, Faris reckons, because it's happened before he's even registered any coherent thought. As soon as it did, though, he feels strangely guilty for it in turn. Time for another Clonazepam, which he washes down with his lukewarm bottle of water.

_Clarke marks the sixth body found in connection with acts of Vampiric terrorism since the assault of police officer Paul Wallis at the June 20 austerity protest._

Today's another of those sweltering heat wave days where the stink of city and garbage mingles with the exhaust gas from the cars that pass down the high street, so humid the air glues his shirt to his back. Faris read somewhere that hot food helps with regulating body temperature, he thinks. Still, the more sizzling-hot gravy drips from the Steak Bake he's got in his hand, the less hungry he feels. He locks his phone and puts it back in his pocket.

–

“So… They found a dead MP on the South Bank today,” Josh says later that day.

They're sitting on the stoop outside Rhys and Harry's front door eating Chinese takeaway, and the shop's still open, technically, but Rhys has a strict policy against smelly food behind the counter. Besides, today's a slow day as it is.

“I've heard,” Faris says and picks a piece of orange chicken out of his container with his chopsticks. He's dreadfully bad at using those, actually, but after watching Josh use his as a skewer to stab a wonton, he doesn't feel that self-conscious about his own abilities anymore.

Josh hums and impales another innocent fried dumpling. “'m just trying to make conversation,” he says, mouth half full.

“You really suck at it,” Faris observes, and he scuffs the side of his shoe against the concrete underneath them.

The air's cooled down enough by now that it's almost bearable. Still, Faris feels like he's boiling up just under his skin, a strange hot-cold sensation considering how cool he feels underneath his own fingers.

“My arm's really cold,” he says, then, and reaches his arm out towards Josh. “Here, feel.”

Josh sets one _disgustingly_ warm hand on his forearm. He says, “Ew.”

“Yeah.”

“You feel like a dead fish,” Josh says, but still he nudges closer to Faris and continues to feel his arm. “So gross.”

“ _You're_ gross,” Faris insists, and he picks at his orange chicken some more.

Josh says, “My ma called me about the cook out again.”

Faris asks, “And?”

“And nothing, really. She just wanted to know if I'm bringing anyone so she can do the shopping this weekend,” Josh says. “And she still calls me by my girl name, obviously.”

Faris says, “Ouch.” After he's dug another piece of chicken from his takeaway container, he asks, “Were you gonna tell her? Next weekend?”

“Probably not.” Josh moves so he can lean all the way into Faris' side, and Faris automatically yields for him. “More trouble than it's worth, you know?”

Faris only nods understandingly. For a bit, then, they eat in silence, with only the occasional car passing by. Josh waves at a girl with purple hair when she walks past them, apparently a regular.

Finally, Josh says, “Some people think it's a conspiracy.”

“What?”

“You know. Clarke,” Josh says. “Considering how quickly they identified him and where they found him.”

Faris thinks it over for a second and says, “Probably.”

For a second, he expects Josh to say something profound or maybe argue his point, probably both. Instead, he only laughs, a firecracker high-pitched cackle.

–

On the next day, the temperature outside hits twenty-four degrees.

On the day after, Sunday, it's twenty-five, a horrendous square of two fives. Sun on a Sunday, Faris would contemplate that if his insides didn't feel like they're being cooked the second he alights from the bus. A bus is just a giant sardine can for humans when he thinks about it, and it's worst when he's on his way to work, but the air conditioning provides a small relief from the sweaty city outside.

By Monday, it's dropped back down to a humane twenty, but the humidity is up to eighty percent, so much moisture in the air that it's almost got a physical weight. Rhys had brought out the first stand-up fan at the beginning of summer, then another two they'd ordered on Amazon Prime after customers started complaining about the suffocating air inside the shop. Really, all the fans have done is blow the warm air from one end of the shop to the other, but that isn't stopping Faris from sitting with his face right in front of the one closest to the counter.

“I think it's supposed to work better if you put a bottle of ice water behind it,” Harry says from somewhere behind him. “Like, it's meant to cool off the air as it's being ventilated.”

Rhys is too wrapped up in something on their Macbook to reply to her, fingers tapping manically against the keys. In their place, Faris lets out a long, resounding groan that promptly gets chopped up into a robotic stutter by the rotating blades, until all the air leaving his lungs makes him feel dizzier than he already is.

“Hello,” he repeats with his voice turned choppy. “This is Faris. Mic check, one-two, one-two.”

From where he's lying on the floor, Josh snorts. He's spread out between the two display tables on the cool white tile, one fan between his legs to blow the air into the bottom of his baggy t-shirt.

“Dickhead.”

Faris takes a huge swig from his bottle of water that's gone lukewarm and says, in his best Dalek impression, “EXTERMINATE.”

The noise that comes from Josh this time is less a laugh and more akin to the noise it makes when the air slowly escapes from a balloon. Faris is positive he sounds exactly like that when he next exhales a breath, though, panting like a dog. His brain is swimming, a distant sensation of suffocating.

“'scuse me?”

Faris pushes his chair to one side and himself away from the fan's breeze to let Harry pass. Harry's also wearing one of those bralet things under the most translucent blouse today, the kind of top that makes Faris unsure whether he should even look in her direction coupled with jean shorts. Actually, Faris is the only one between them who _isn't_ wearing shorts today.

“I want to kill myself,” he says in his robot voice.

“Faz,” Josh's voice comes from the floor. “Fazza.” He makes a breathing noise again, but this time Faris can't even tell whether the air is entering his body or leaving it, almost a wheeze. “I got this sexual fantasy I'd been meaning to tell you about.”

Faris sucks in a breath that isn't anywhere near enough to sufficiently oxygenate him. “Go on,” he says, but his head's fallen down so his voice comes out intact for once.

“It's like so… I'm on my knees, on all fours and I'm all naked so the hot air's just up against my skin,” Josh says, in a sleazy voice that's half put-on and half the effects of the heat. “I'm all ready for you and then you whip out your big thick ice lolly and stick it all the way down my throat until I choke…”

Josh's words trail off into a hoarse version of his witchy cackles, and Faris joins in with the fan cutting his laugh up again.

“I think we've got a temperature-sensitive dildo somewhere, actually,” Rhys points out in their best sex-toy-salesperson voice. “Or you could probably use a Clone-a-Willy kit and make an ice lolly mould, it'll be a hen do-kind of thing.”

What they imply and don't state, obviously, is that BedMates doesn't sell Clone-a-Willy kits.

“So you're enabling Josh's fantasy of giving the deep throat to Frozone,” Faris says into the fan. “Disgusting.”

Later that night, after Rhys had served them a sweaty vegetable stir-fry for dinner, Faris is just about to slide his metaphorical ice lolly into a different hole of Josh's. With no windows to let in the sun and its disgusting rays but no way for the air to get out, Josh's tiny room is cool yet stuffy, the air muggy with dust and sweat between the pheromones.

“You've been rubbing me for the last two minutes.”

“Feels good.”

“Get on with it,” Josh insists and slaps his hand down onto Faris' arse.

“Not with that attitude.”

Still, Faris nudges his head deeper into the curve of Josh's neck and obliges. He inhales deeply, and this time, it's not for the oxygen he so desperately needs, but the pheromones alone that are enough to make him groan.

“Mmm… mate, are you fucking kidding me?”

The words come out in Josh's slow sexy voice, so Faris only hums back for a second before they get through to him. “What d'you mean?”

“You're soft?”

“Oh,” Faris dumbly says.

He's suddenly very aware of his cock in his hand where he's been trying to push into Josh's front hole, and more so aware of how _flabby_ it is. With the realisation, the rest of his body goes flaccid, too, so he has to settle atop of Josh.

“How do you not _notice_?”

That's a very stupid question, or rather, it's an entirely reasonable question with a very stupid answer. Faris presses his forehead down harder onto the knob of Josh's shoulder. “I don't know,” he rumbles. “I don't really pay attention to it, you know.”

“It's your _brain problems_ ,” Josh suggests, voice gravelly-deep to make it obvious he's taking the piss.

“It's the heatwave,” Faris insists. The swimminess from earlier today still hangs around his head like a cloudy mesh veil all over again. “Fucking up my circulation. I can't even see.”

Admittedly, a big part of the reason why Faris can't see is because his contacts have fogged up, but at the same time, his eyes are twitching under the bright neon light in Josh's room in a way that can't be explained by the muggy air.

“The heatwave's caused you erectile dysfunction,” Josh moans back, and it's definitely not a question.

Faris can't even make coherent words in response to that. His face sinks down into the soft part of Josh's chest.

Josh slaps him in the shoulder this time. “Get off me, you dumb boy.”

The bed's too small for both of them, really too small to have sex on to begin with, but Faris somehow manages to flop down at Josh's side. The sound that leaves his mouth is less a deliberate sigh and more a release of air from his lungs.

Josh rolls over. “Well. I'd suggest we just cuddle, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to die if I keep touching you.”

“Fair enough,” Faris says back.

His head spins when he sits up, unfortunately on the side of the bed nearest to the wall. Actually, it's much the same for him, especially since Josh is so unreasonably _warm_. He wonders if he's clammy again, that dead-fish feeling from the other day, but his hands are too sweaty and the air too hot for him to reliably check.

“I hope you know I'm just gonna stick my vibe in the freezer in like five minutes,” Josh says from the mattress while Faris picks his things off the floor.

Faris takes a shower and uses Rhys' expensive body wash again. The hot water feels awful on his skin, burning and prickly even when he tries to adjust the temperature, but cold water makes him feel even worse, so he bites his tongue and tries to ignore that persistent muggy feeling. He never felt it was possible to sweat in the shower until now. After, he pops into the living room where Rhys and Harry are still watching the telly to say goodbye before he walks home.

Nightfall is already coming earlier again, the sky outside dark with the streets only bathed in the soft orange light of the lampposts. Faris' phone says it's ten minutes past midnight, later than he'd expected and he wouldn't even have to wait long for the night bus, but the air has cooled down, humid in a clammy way just like his skin, and it’s almost pleasant.

He lights a fag as he walks the way back, off the high street through Ridley Road and all the small streets lined with residential blocks and local businesses with their lights dimmed. Vampire hours are almost over, the one-o'clock-watershed when most shops with the Humanity for Vees Society sticker shut down for good, so even Hackney feels good as empty.

The streetlights hum with static electricity, dim like that leftover light after sundown, and whatever shake had gotten into his vision earlier seems to have completely faded away. Faris watches a shaggy-furred cat as it creeps beneath a parked car in the distance, attracted by the stinking piles of bin bags, the only movement amid the motionless street. Tonight's much too quiet for murderers, Vampiric terrorists, anyone who would dump a body in front of a restaurant or kill a Tory MP, and so, Faris focusses on the cracks in the pavement and counts his steps.

One, two, three, four, five, he's never actually counted the number of steps it takes to get from BedMates to his building. Faris has heard of a certain kind of asphalt with tiny fragments of glass mixed in to glitter with reflected light, but tonight is the first time he notices all the intricacies of the pavement beneath his boots. Like the realisation that trees had leaves when he first got glasses as a kid, maybe it's like that again, an obvious detail that never jumped out because he'd simply never paid attention.

One by one, the leftover bright windows go dark, and Faris would count them, too, if he could focus for long enough. The world feels desolate and yet serene, as if he's the only person left awake, the only one to watch over it and watch himself extinguish his fag on someone's garden wall. When he lights a second one, the flame of his Zippo seems much too bright.

–

Every day gets hotter than the last one.

Faris no longer bothers with checking the weather app on his phone when two degrees don't make a difference anymore. No matter what, he wakes up every day bathed in sweat with his head spinning. He hates-hates-hates-hates-hates the heat, how it's made him light-headed and weak and how washed-out and sickly his skin looks in the mirror, an unhealthy greyish-olive colour that only looks sicklier with how yellow the whites of his eyes have become. He's _definitely_ coming down with something, and he almost calls in sick to work twice until he realises the implications of this, the most obvious reason why he feels like this.

Faris dreads the thought of going outside and sitting on an overheated bus, but he dreads the idea of staying in his equally overheated room more. Keeping his blinds closed all day can only do so much. Really, he looks forward to work if only for the air conditioning in the shop and the electrical fan Nick put in the break room, even if he finds it more difficult to concentrate than usual. He's been off the Ritalin since he graduated uni, and still this is different from being unable to control his focus, not so much a matter of loosening his mental grip as it’s a sudden absence of thoughts, an unexpected short-circuit in his brain. More than once, he finds himself gazing into air with his head vacant and an irate customer snapping their fingers to bring his attention back to the items he was in the middle of ringing up.

Nick ambushes him in the break room about it once when he's just returned from Greggs with a Steak Bake in hand and a solid coat of sweat glazing his skin. His uniform shirt feels stale and greasy as soon as the cooled air gets to him, even if it's just been washed yesterday. Faris only registers Nick sitting at the table when he removes his sunglasses, and he puts them back on immediately.

“Faris?”

“Nick,” Faris says back, but he takes the chair across from him all the same.

“How're you?”

Nick's not the most physically imposing person. Well, he's only about three inches shorter than Faris, but he's constantly dieting to fit into his weird designer skinny jeans. Also, as masc-acting he may be, Faris is sure he'd never willingly enter a physical fight lest he might accidentally mess up his quiff.

Still, Faris must have tensed up.

Nick almost immediately says, “I'm not going to fire you.”

Faris says, “Okay. I'm good.”

He sets his backpack down onto the carpeted floor next to him and the Steak Bake onto the tabletop. The paper bag is already going see-through with the greasy gravy soaking it. In this weather, it almost seems unappealing.

“What did you want to talk about to me?”

“How's Rhys?” Nick asks. It almost catches Faris off guard for a split second.

“Still gay.” Small talk. “Has a boyfriend now.”

Nick only does a weird closed-mouthed chuckle, the kind people do during small talk, which is something Faris never got behind in general.

Then Nick says, “So.”

“Yeah.”

“I noticed you've been extremely inattentive as of late.”

“Yeah,” Faris repeats. “I know.” He then immediately realises he shouldn't have said that, probably.

Nick only quirks an eyebrow, dim behind Faris' dark lenses.

“I'm sorry.” Faris fidgets with his hands, digs the nail of one thumb into his knuckle to have something to do. He says, “It's my… my brain problems, you know? That make me unable to focus.” He says, “I'm not gonna be able to get a prescription for it from my psychiatrist until October.”

That's probably bullshit, and Faris knows it, but Nick seems to buy it with a straight face.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?”

“Force of habit.” Faris reaches up to take the glasses off for good. He says, “It's bright outside. Sun.” Which is an _incredibly_ stupid answer to give, he realises that as soon as it's out from his mouth. He pulls down one eyelid to show more of the white there and says, “See? No red.”

In his best professional employer voice, Nick says, “All right. That's everything I needed to know.” He adjusts the chair after he gets up, to make it look like it had never been sat on in the first place, and says, “I'll leave you to your pastry.”

“Cheers.”

Faris waits until he's out of the room, and then he pulls his phone and writes a text to the group chat. He didn’t realise his heart was up in his throat until that point. _Just accidentally convinced Nick im a drug addict_.

It takes five minutes and most of the cooled-down Steak Bake for Josh to text back. _HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA_.

_I lits thought he was gonna lay me off._

Harry texts back, _ouch_.

Rhys texts, _But are you okay?_ X

_I guess? Im only freaking out a little bit._

_Awwwww_ , Harry writes.

Josh sends a series of three sparkly heart emojis, and Faris doesn't even think it over before he sends back five of them.

He chooses to ignore it and turns his phone back off when Rhys writes _Young love xxx_ , though.

–

    Faris always knew how the end of the world would come.

He's imagined it time and time again, first fuelled by reading material inappropriate for kids his age and later encouraged further by the paranoia when it began to take a grip on his brain. Global warming, the year 2012, holes in the ozone layer, nuclear war. The melting of the poles would take care of the coastal regions, and the entirety of London would drown. In the end, the sun expands into a red giant and swallows up every planet in its orbit one by one.

All the school psychologists lectured him about not letting it bother him, as did the therapist he had to see in sixth form, the one who gave him the diagnosis. Faris knows it's all irrational, of course, it's all thought and no truth. He knows every single coping mechanism for intrusive thoughts that's ever been drilled into him. And he knows the world isn't _actually_ going to end.

Even with all that in mind, when he exits the shop back door on his lunch break and the sky is on fire, his only thought is that he wouldn't have expected it to happen this soon. The sun blares down through his lenses as soon as he steps out, and it goes straight through his clothes to scorch the skin there as well. Faris raises one hand to cover the strip of light above his shades, but it really doesn't help. All it does is burn his fingers, anyway.

His boots feel soft, unreasonably slouchy much like how the concrete feels under his steps, just melted enough to have a give until it starts to stick to his equally melted soles. There's so much sweat coating his skin it's not so much running as it's outright flowing, sticks to his shirt and soaks it clean through.

Maybe he's melting, too. Maybe if he raises his arm to check, his skin will come off viscous and gooey, but there's too much sweat swimming in his eyes for him to see. His head droops down with the air pressure, away from the sun and death. Every drop of sweat sizzles away just as soon as it hits the pavement. His head droops lower, lower, lower, lower, lower, as the asphalt’s grip grows tighter on his shoes. One, two, three, four, five. Every step becomes more sluggish and he has to draw each number out longer.

One, one, one, one, one, a single step composed of five ones.

Two, two, two, two, two. The pavement swims with how much it's heated up, the air flickers even through his muggy eyes.

Three, three, three, three…

Suddenly the pavement comes so much closer.

That's how it ends.

Except then, Faris wakes up, and it's not over at all.

He's in the first aid recovery position, on his side with his naked eyes throbbing under the piercing sunlight still. His entire face is throbbing, actually, the cartilage of his nose and the bone of his chin, and his forehead where an unseen hand is currently applying a cold compress. An overwhelming stink of petrol and rot hangs around him, in addition to the general odour of the decomposing city. His immediate thought is that it must have gotten his nose again, like that time he broke it playing football two years ago.

“Oh, fuck,” Faris rumbles out, to prove that at least his vocal chords are still fine rather than anything else. It comes out sounding more like a long, garbled _oh_ , however.

His head spins with vertigo when he rolls onto his back, careful even if the rest of his body seems to be in working order. One hand goes up to his face to check for any nosebleeds.

“No touch,” a voice says, deep and gravelly and comforting like the voices of his eldest great-aunts and grandmothers. “Do not touch.”

The owner of the voice presses the compress down harder on his head, as if to make their point. Faris instead covers his blistering eyes with his hand.

“Can I have my glasses back?” he asks. When no reply comes immediately, he repeats, “My glasses.” To show what he means, he waves his hand over his eyes.

He tells it by the metallic sound of the earpieces and the frame rather than by sight when the sunnies are dangled in front of his face, and he blindly gropes to pull them on. Two times, he blinks, and then another three times to make it even. Finally, he can make out the person kneeling on the pavement next to him without squinting.

It's a woman, of course, in a black hijab that hides everything but a round, smiling face that's approximately the same colour as a walnut's shell, and just as wrinkly, too. She's got the same hook in her nose as Faris does.

“هل تتكلم اللغة العربية؟” he asks, before the fact that his grasp on the language is shaky to begin with can catch up with him. He's well-aware that his pronunciation is just as awful, in the same second that he realises he picked that question up from his mum’s old Arabic phrasebook.

Still, her smile grows wider before she answers. Her voice sounds so much more natural around the language, a paradoxical mix of smoothness and sandpaper.

She pours more water onto a tissue, from a bottle which Faris recognises as the one he had in his backpack, his backpack which is now supporting his head. This tissue, she applies to his chin, and the throb turns into a sting turns into a burn. Faris cuts a face. He's not even surprised when it comes off drenched with dirty blood red, the true source of the smell.

When she presses a second wet tissue to his jaw, she asks him where he's from.

He replies, “فلسطين”

She explains to him that she's Lebanese, and that, Faris thinks, she lives with her son and his family. He only smiles and nods, even when she asks him if he's okay and she has to ask again, whether he's sick, this time.

Faris shakes his head, as careful as he can. “أنا مصّاص الدماء”

He's a little surprised with how easily it spills out over his lips, whether that's because it's wrapped up in a foreign language or because he's telling a complete stranger. Just to be sure that she understands what he means, he raises his two fingers in a V and points them towards his canines.

–

In the end, Faris orders a Uber back home after he's thanked the woman and repeatedly assured her that he's okay now. His driver is a white guy around his age, ginger with a face that's somehow freckled and sunburnt at once and silver studs in his nostril and lip.

“Nice face,” he says in a cartoonishly broad accent, when Faris has settled in the passenger seat and flipped down the sun visor. With his vision blurred, all the red on the driver’s skin almost resembles dried blood. “That's gonna leave a cool scar.”

Faris only grunts with indifference.

“There a story behind it?”

“The story is I'm an idiot,” Faris says. Still, he can't help but eye the wound on his chin in the visor mirror. He's not looking forward to cleaning it properly. “Not in the mood to talk.”

The driver only makes a noise. His arms are just as marred with freckles as his face is, even the insides of them. “They really should implement an update in the app where you can pick if you prefer a talkative driver or not.”

Faris shrugs. He pulls out his phone and takes off his shades to snap a front camera selfie, yellow eyes and pallid skin and all. One of his lids looks a bit swollen, too, so he wouldn't be surprised if it's going to bloom into a full black eye later on. He texts the picture first to Nick, with a note that he won't be able to work the second half of his shift today for reasons that should be obvious, and then, with no added commentary, to Josh.

_what the fuck happened_

_can you PLEASE put that away_

Faris types out, _Well apparently I am a vampire after all because I blacked out under the sun and gave myself a new face in the process_ , but then erases it all and instead writes, _Uhh i tripped_.

 _gross_ , Josh writes back.

_Am I still invited to your barbecue?_

_yeah just tell my ma you got into a fistfight or something_

Maybe it's the impact of being slammed in the face with concrete, but the true gravity of the situation doesn't hit Faris until over an hour after the Uber dropped him off. Well, it couldn't have been the Clonazepam wearing off because he never took one in the first place, although he did swallow two dry Paracetamols after he cleaned his chin off with rubbing alcohol. After that, he pressed a plastic bag of frozen broccoli that definitely belonged to James against his face in an attempt to contain the swelling.

Now, he's sitting at the kitchen table, thawed-out broccoli still mashed against his face. His brain feels dreary and blurry the way it feels after a bad episode, and he decides to finally dig out his phone and face the facts. Faris opens Google with a shaky thumb and types in, _congenital bloodbourne haemovore syndrome_.

The first result he gets is Wikipedia, the second is a page on the NHS website. He opts to click on the NHS one as it seems marginally less imposing.

_Congenital Bloodbourne Haemovore Syndrome (CBHS), commonly referred to as Vampirism, is a genetic mutation that is unique in its ability to be transmitted by bite. Those afflicted, usually called Vees, produce a type of venom within the bone marrow. Other symptoms include large, pointed canine teeth, an increased sensitivity to sunlight, and most noticeably, a hunger for mammalian blood which leads to withdrawal symptoms if neglected._

_CBHS is thought to be caused by a series of complex genetic mutations, and is most commonly passed on during pregnancy by Vee mothers. If contracted later in life, usually through the bite or a contaminated blood transfusion, the infected will undergo a period of approximately twelve weeks during which their DNA gradually mutates and their body adjusts in turn._

Faris has to shut his phone off for a second. It's now been nine weeks since the Sleepover where he met Tom, if that's his real name at all. The thought of reading more stirs up dread in the bottom of his belly. An anticipatory shiver runs up his back and tightens the skin of his chest. He'd compare it to paranoia but this time it's distinctly _real_ , a sufficiently reasonable dread of the realisation that's about to hit him.

_Venom must make contact with the bloodstream for infection to take place. While CBHS can be spread through mouth-to-mouth or mouth-to-genital contact if microscopic tears are present, the chance of this happening is very low. For example, research data says there's only about a one in 10,000 chance of infection when receiving unprotected oral sex from a Vampire._

He doesn't make it any further down the page.

One in ten thousand.

That's two thousand sets of fives which is four hundred sets of fives which is eighty sets of five which is sixteen sets of five which is three sets of five plus one. That's a lot of fives, and still it had to happen to _him_.

Faris closes the tab before he can read about the symptoms, because he already knows all of them. Sensitive nose, for sniffing out blood and fellow Vampires, increased sensitivity to sunlight, to lead a nocturnal lifestyle. Intravenous and glandular aches as the body adjusts to the venom, cramps that come from building up muscle. He remembers that much from high school biology. And an inexplicable craving for the copper-penny taste of blood.

When he opens his contacts and scrolls down to the T, _Tom (DO NOT PICK UP)_ is right where he's supposed to be. Faris takes a deep breath before he clicks on the name. His thumb hovers over the _call_ button for a long second before he chooses the text message speech-bubble instead. Much less confrontational.

The empty text conversation glares at him when he types out, _hey Tom. just wanted to let you know you were right_

_you were right about everything_

–

            Faris does not make it to work the next day, either. He spends ages debating with himself on this when he wakes up, bathed in his own sweat and rotted venom reek. One day's worth of unpaid sick leave means seven hours’ worth of minimum wage missing from his pay cheque, plus the three hours that he missed yesterday makes ten, two fives. All that adds up to an astonishing sixty-seven pounds, which he might need to pay his rent or top up his Oyster or buy groceries.

Maybe not the last one, though.

But he needs those hours, or he'll be laid off for being an irresponsible junkie worker. He'll have to find a new job and there's absolutely no way anyone will hire a gay brown Vampire with brain problems who _looks like that_. Faris smothers his face with the pillow, and he's going to stay like this until he suffocates, or at the very least until the alarm goes off.

Finally, when he drags himself out of bed to piss, when he absolutely can't put it off anymore, he finds that the wound on his chin has opened up once again in his sleep. His one eye's swollen fatter, too, and that takes the decision away from him.

_Hey Nick, sorry to say but I wont be coming in today either as my face is still a mess so I probably shouldnt be around customers and also I feel like death. thanks for understanding F._

As soon as the text has registered as _sent_ , he shuts his phone off for good and tucks it into the pocket of the trackies he'changed into after he got home. That part about feeling like death was a lie, since his face ache is no more than a dull throb and he's used to the vertigo and overall tiredness by now. Still, he drags himself into the kitchen and grabs an entire thing of pre-packaged bacon rashers from the fridge to eat it raw.

Vertigo, fatigue, yellowed eyes, sickly complexion, lowered body temperature, poor focus, those are all common signs of anaemia. Malnutrition in Vees will lead to the same symptoms. Denial is a river in Egypt, Faris doesn't have the mental strength to ponder that one.

He takes the bacon back to his room, and he spends the rest of the day watching cartoons online and not checking his phone.


	8. womb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over Arabic for translation again. Content warning for deadnaming/misgendering.

“You look different,” Faris says as soon as he's climbed into the car and fastened his seatbelt.

Josh came to pick him up right outside his building in Rhys' ridiculous BedMates car. Well, he said they're not going to mind, and Harry doesn't care either as long as he brings the car back by seven o'clock at the latest. But it's not like Josh would've wanted to spend that much time around his family as it is.

“Very funny.”

“Seriously.” Faris adjusts his fringe as he reclines his shotgun seat, sweaty even if today is the first time in what must be weeks that the sun _isn't_ out. “Did you do something to your hair?”

“I'm wearing a bra,” Josh very simply says. From his tone, Faris feels like maybe he went too far with that one.

“I'm sorry,” he simply says back, and it's about as genuine as it gets.

“They couldn't make me shave my legs, though, so it's cool.” Josh reaches over to change the radio channel to Xfm, and he says, “My body, my choice.”

Faris only laughs at him. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I'm about as sure as you can get.” Josh says, “I can't imagine my ma's going to be receptive to the idea that I'm a man, so I'm not gonna try to convince her.”

Faris distinctly has the feeling Josh's said that before, but he only nods. “That's fair enough.” He leans back in his reclined seat, grey sky too bright even through his sunglasses so he pulls the visor down, and he asks, “D'you mind if I nap for a bit?”

“Go ahead.”

Josh's a dreadful driver, the type Faris' mum would refer to as a _lead foot_ , but the London traffic's slow enough that he can lean back and let his mind drift off nevertheless. He doesn't think it's enough to actually _sleep_ , especially considering his nerves are too all-over-the-place from the prospect of meeting Josh's family, who he'd only heard of as unpleasant shadowy figures until now. _Especially_ especially given the realisation that's still fresh in his brain.

After he binged his way through both series of Bojack Horseman yesterday, the coherent thought of what had transpired crept back into his brain, the knowledge that he was one of _them_ now. Which is an awful way of putting it, actually. A _Vampire_. With that realisation came along all the comments he'd overheard over the years, the _haemo scum_ whispered through the classrooms at Rugby when the roll call reached one classmate’s name or the  مصّاص دماء he could pick out from his dad's conversations whenever they were visiting family in the Middle East.

All those casual comments from Josh, too, so now he's got the word sitting under his tongue and he daren't let it out, _VAMPIRE VAMPIRE VAMPIRE VAMPIRE VAMPIRE_. Faris is uncomfortably reminded of the feeling of being closeted, and the road beneath is too bumpy for him to possibly find sleep. Still, he doesn't open his eyes again until they pass a sign indicating it's ten more miles to Canvey Island.

That’s right after Josh asks him, “Hey? Faz?”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t even budge at the nickname.

“Good, you're not asleep.”

“Am not.”

“Yeah.”

There's enough traffic on the road to slow them down to a steady crawling speed, since apparently everyone else is trying to get out of the rainy London weather, too. Josh says, “So.”

A silence fills the air after the single syllable, lofty with the knowledge that Josh's obviously not done speaking.

“Go ahead.” Faris is sure that whatever Josh's trying to tell him surely can't be _that_ difficult to get out. Not as difficult as what he's got to say, that's for certain.

“I… might have told my mum that you're my boyfriend,” Josh says.

Well.

Faris can't get any words out for a second, but the surprise still automatically stiffens up his back. That's the only way he can respond.

Their eyes meet across the console and Josh's brow furrows in an almost comically forlorn expression.

“Don't get mad, please.”

“I'm not mad,” Faris says. He tries to sink deeper into his seat, but his posture is about as relaxed as it gets while his heart continues to beat up a storm. “Just surprised.”

“Okay,” Josh says, but it doesn't sound genuine.

The traffic picks back up a bit once again. Josh switches gears, or something like that. Faris doesn't know the first thing about driving.

“I just thought maybe it'd get my ma off my back for a bit, you know,” Josh says, “So don't take it too personally or anything.”

“You don't need to explain yourself,” Faris diplomatically says. “I feel like I'm in a movie. Like, _Meet the Fockers_ , or something.”

Josh makes a soft snorting noise and says, “That was a shit film.”

Faris closes his eyes once again and thinks about the Clonazepam he took just before he left his flat. Maybe, just maybe he'll be able to deal with this.

–

They park in front of a Co-Op next to a decrepit video store. The sky is still as overcast as it was in London, if far less rainy, and still Faris pulls his sunglasses on as soon as he gets out of the car. A little bit, it's strange to be able to see the horizon past the nearest towering building, more sky than city. He takes a deep breath of the breezy air first thing.

“So, this is Essex,” Josh says as soon as he's locked the car door. “What do you think?”

“Well, it's better than London,” Faris simply says. He arches his back, spine cracking after the car ride, and surveys the Co-Op, the field of green next to him and all those picturesque little houses that line the street. “The only way is Essex.”

“Gross,” Josh says, and he points at a road with his chin. “My house is about halfway down that street.”

“Cool.”

They're most of the way there, according to Josh, when Faris asks, “So how long have we been going out for?”

“What?”

“In our pretend relationship. When did we start dating?”

“I don't know,” Josh says.

“If your mum asks me about it.”

Josh only shrugs. “December? We met in a bookshop while we were Christmas shopping.”

“Cool.”

“Our first date was in Zizzi's Italian.”

“I hate Zizzi's,” Faris says, very matter of fact.

“Our first date was in Pizza Express?”

“Right, our first date was in Zizzi's.”

“We're thinking of moving in together as soon as I get a full-time programming job,” Josh says. “We both work in retail.”

“Okay.” Faris digs his hands deeper into his pockets, feels where he has his phone and passport and his wallet full of copper penny change.

“Hold my hand.”

Josh's house is another one of those low-roofed red brick houses, with a little wall separating the driveway from the street and big windows out in front. It's a nice house, smaller than the one Faris grew up in but nice, and he says as much.

“Your house looks nice.”

“It's not,” Josh says back. “The council owns it.”

From where Faris presumes the back garden is, the smell of charcoal and cooking meat already hangs in the air. Meat is essentially just flesh, a bit further removed from the concept of being alive or even being a human but still, Faris' stomach turns at the same time that his mouth waters. He takes another deep breath.

“You ready?”

“I guess,” Faris says.

Josh rings the doorbell.

The very first thing Faris thinks when the door opens is that Josh's mother looks exactly like him. Not in the way Faris looks exactly like his brothers or how Joe and his sister look identical, and not even in the way that Rhys and Harry look alike, as if they'd been assembled from the same parts. But they've got the same twinkle in their eyes, the same edge to their smile even if Josh's mum is missing the pointy teeth.

She calls Josh by his girl name when she reaches to pull him into a long hug, asks him if they had a good trip and all that. Faris just stands there and looks on as they small talk.

Finally, Josh says, “Ma, this is my boyfriend.” It sounds a little _too_ natural.

“Faris,” Faris helpfully supplies and immediately worries that it sounds not natural at all. He extends his hand.

“It's lovely to meet you, Faris.”

Well, at least she's pronouncing it correctly. Josh's mum seems like a warm little person, stocky the way Josh is stocky but about half a foot shorter, with a firm handshake. Faris likes that.

“Pleasure to meet you, too.”

“So, where are you from?”

So much for that, but then, maybe she's just trying to make small talk. Faris wouldn't know about that. “Uh, East Yorkshire.”

“No, where is your family from?”

Well. So much for _that_. “My dad's from Palestine,” Faris says, as friendly as he can. He throws a sceptical glance over towards Josh all the same.

Josh pulls a grimace and sucks his top lip into his mouth.

“Lovely,” his mum says. “Josh, why don't you show Faris into the back garden to meet your dad?” Except she doesn't say _Josh_.

Mainly to get out of the conversation, Faris says, “Yeah, sure.”

Josh says, “Sounds great, Ma.” He asks, “Sure you don't want me to help you out with anything? Drinks? Chips? Salads?”

“No, no, I'm fine.” Josh's mum reaches up to plant a hand on each of their shoulders, and Faris isn't sure how to deal with that part. “You two have fun now.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“Thank you, Ma'am,” Faris says, for lack of anything else to say. Josh nudges him with his elbow for it.

The house seems just as small on the inside as it did on the outside. When Josh leads Faris through the kitchen-slash-dining room, he says, “Sorry about my ma.”

Faris says, “She seems friendly.” Which is an appropriate way to describe her, he supposes, if only for the fact that _hostile_ doesn't quite fit.

“She's probably just glad your cock converted me to cisgender heterosexuality, so,” Josh says, and he props the patio door open.

Faris only laughs.

The rest of Josh's family certainly seems _friendly_ , too. His dad is a big man with even bigger hands and a rugged beard, while his sister is tall for a girl and has the same upturn to her nose and dimples in her cheeks as Josh does. She's invited some friends over, too, and Faris doesn't catch their names, but the lot of them seem awfully _normal_ , too normal to be connected to warm-and-weird Josh in any way. At least none of them look at Faris too strangely or really pay any attention to him at all, beyond the fact that he's supposedly Josh's boyfriend.

The dad's slightly less intimidating. He's about half a foot shorter than Faris, even if he's packed with muscle to be twice as wide, but he wears a distressed football jersey and plays Oasis from a portable stereo while he cooks the burgers and chicken thighs and whatever else is sizzling on the grill. Faris doesn't have the nerve to look for too long considering how much his mouth is watering already. Josh introduces them to each other and doesn't bother saying _my boyfriend_ this time around. His dad somehow forces Faris into a ten-minute conversation about football teams, but he doesn't seem to suspect anything _off_ either.

After Josh's mum brought out a big platter of homemade chips and two bowls of salad, it’s time to eat. Faris and Josh drag two of the plastic chairs to the far end of the back garden where the wall provides some shade. It's not that big a garden to begin with, but still, there's about six feet of space separating them and the rest of the party, which is more than enough for Faris.

“Your mum's not going to question it,” Faris insists. He's settled as deeply into his chair as he possibly can, and now he's picking up the first skewer from his plate. “We're in _love_ , you know. What kind of meat is this?”

“It's beef.” Josh dips a forkful of chips into a puddle of hot sauce and says, “But you _do_ eat pork, don't you?”

“Of course I eat pork,” Faris says before he uses his fork to pull a nugget of meat off the kebab. “You've literally watched me eat ham before.”

“'m sorry.” It comes out muffled with the chips in his mouth, but not any less genuine. Josh folds one leg over the other to balance his plate on his thigh, and he picks at his pasta salad. “It's pretty rich of you to say that you want some distance from my family when I'm the one who has to talk to them the whole time.”

Faris laughs. “In all fairness I do feel bad 'cause I loaded my plate with all this meat, and I'm just your guest.”

He gazes down at the plate where it's stacked with a burger, no bun, a second skewer and about three pieces of chicken. As true as that statement is, it's not like the immense hunger he's feeling is going to let him put any of that back.

“My ma thinks you're too skinny as it is, so don't worry about it,” Josh says, voice still muddled.

“I told her I'm doing no-carb at the moment.”

Faris picks a second nugget from the skewer, far too well-done and leathery for his tastes, and he dips it into Josh's hot sauce, fully aware it'll probably singe his entire mouth. It covers up the vaguely charred taste, at the very least.

“I do worry they're suspecting something about me, though,” Faris says, then, and he makes an effort to keep his voice low. “Like I have the feeling every time your dad looks at me he can tell I'm actually gay.”

“Bisexual,” Josh helpfully supplies. “My beautiful bisexual boyfriend.”

“You know that's still too gay for someone like him, though.”

“My dad's not _bad_.” Josh gives him a very determined puppy-eyed look and takes a bite from one of his chicken drumsticks. “Like, back when I thought I was a lesbian, he pretty much did tell me that he was gonna support me no matter what. It's mainly just my ma who's awful.”

Faris lets the statement sit in the air for a split second. “I honestly felt he was trying to test my heterosexuality when he started talking to me about the Premier League, so.” Even if, more than anything, it just made him feel bad for not having the time to keep up with football anymore.

“You know that's just how normal people make _small talk_ , right.”

“Small talk,” Faris repeats, but he can't get into that nasal tone to adequately imitate Josh's voice. He lifts the skewer off his plate to directly bite the next piece of meat off, since using a fork does make him feel unreasonably posh. “I still feel they're all looking at me weird, I mean…”

He really hopes the vague glance he casts down at his boots and skinny jeans explains what he means, even if his sunglasses block it out.

“It's 'cause you're an emo just like me.” Josh reaches over to smooth Faris' fringe out with his non-greasy hand, and Faris doesn't push him away. “Worst case scenario is just they'll think you're gay and we're being each other's beards.”

Faris exhales a fake laugh. He's not going to tell Josh the _real_ reason he knows everyone here is suspicious of him.

–

Dessert is a big ice cream cake with sliced strawberries lining the edges and red frosting spelling out _HAPPY 18_ _TH_ _BIRTHDAY LOUISE_ on top. Faris claims that he's stuffed when Josh's mum calls them both towards the patio when it's time to cut it, but she _insists_. Josh heckles for him to have just one piece, _babe_ , so he gets a corner piece with the _H_ of _18_ _TH_ on his plate for that.

He's sat on the very corner of the table, too small for this amount of people especially now that more Hayward relatives have arrived, which means Faris is stuck between Josh and a cousin. The cousin's maybe around their age, and Josh did explain that they grew up together, with dyed-red hair and shiny fingernails and that characteristic upturn at the end of her nose. Apparently, she went to Goldsmiths. She's much skinnier than Josh's sister, however, or Josh himself for that matter, the type of girl Faris would have been afraid to talk to back when he was in university. Even now, he can't help but feel intimidated just by sitting next to her.

“This cake is really good, Ma,” Josh says. He nudges Faris with his elbow, only subtly but still enough to startle him. “Have you tried it yet?”

“I'm not really hungry,” Faris says back.

The cake sits on his plate untouched and slowly melting at the edges. The frosting is slowly bleeding into the white of the ice cream, and it looks a little too much like _actual_ blood. Still, he lobs off the far corner with his spoon, strawberry on top, and pushes it up to his mouth. The cold is as jarring in his mouth as it's welcome, the exploding ache of brain freeze in sharp contrast with the much-needed relief from the constant overheat he's experiencing. It _is_ really good, he has to admit that, creamy vanilla with a crumby base, but it does nothing to satisfy that craving he can't get rid of.

“Your boyfriend's a bit strange, isn’t he?” Josh's cousin asks.

“She did always like the ugly boys,” his sister offers up. The resemblance to Josh is much more obvious when she speaks, the same subtle sneer in everything she says. “A little skinny, a little weird looking. You know, the _emo_ boys.”

Josh says, “Aww, don't take it personal, babe,” as if he didn’t consistently say things to Faris that are much worse objectively. It's so obviously just _acting_ but at the same time incredibly convincing. “They’re just egging you on.”

A little, it scares him. Faris wonders if Josh's always been a good actor or if this isn't so much about talent as it's about something he himself is lacking, the innate ability to tell cold-blooded lies and have them come out believable.

The only thing he can get out in response is a fake laugh, and he digs his spoon into the ice cream cake again.

“Faris, dear,” Josh's mum says then, “Please don't take this as an insult, I'm not trying to pick on you, but what is that on your chin?”

She places a hand on her own face, the spot where the wound is only slowly scabbing on his.

“Say you got in a fistfight,” Josh insists, whispered through his teeth. “You got caught up in a muggery.”

Faris says, “Oh, I fell down the stairs and on my face. You should've seen it two days ago, I was bleeding all over. My one eye's still swollen shut now.”

“Is that why you're wearing the glasses?” Josh's cousin asks.

“I'd just assumed it was 'cause you're a haemovore, you know,” her boyfriend says.

Oh, the cousin did bring her boyfriend, but Faris had tried his hardest to ignore him until now. The boyfriend's _obviously-straight_ , about as obvious as they get but in a posh West London way. A grad student in law or business or some other posh boy course, with slicked-back hair and one of those proverbial sweatshirts slung around his shoulders. Faris can't help but wonder why the cousin's even dating him.

“Yeah, it's not pretty. You should've seen it two days ago,” Faris repeats. Before he can stop himself, he adds, “They prefer to be called _Vees_.”

Boyfriend says, “Oh, come on, those guys are bloodsuckers. They're predator animals.”

“They have to drink blood to survive. It's an illness, Congenital Bloodbourne Haemovore Syndrome.” Faris isn't sure why he feels the need to argue with this posh boy, and he should probably stop before he draws further suspicion to himself. “They were born that way.”

“Well, I don't see why we as normal healthy people should be forced to accommodate them and feed them our blood if they truly aren't preying on us for it.” The boyfriend lobs at his cake, bleeding red with the icing, and says, “Just have them drink animal blood if they need it so badly.”

“You know it's incredibly expensive to obtain a license to sell blood, though. It's all a big scheme by the government to keep us weak and dependent on their ratios.”

Faris only realises he'd said _us_ instead of _them_ after the fact, but judged by the boyfriend's expression he didn't notice. Neither did anyone else at the table, for that matter.

“Did you read that on the internet?”

Josh's fingers come to smooth the inside of his arm, at the same time that the cousin leans towards her boyfriend and whispers, “Marcus, _please_.”

“Just because a couple of old and disabled people died after the Tory reform doesn't mean there's a whole conspiracy to starve haemos to death, even if liberal propaganda is trying to tell you that.”

Faris can't help but wonder to himself how one person can be so _cartoonishly evil_ , even if he perfectly knows the answer to that question by now.

“I think the ration cuts are a good thing. ‘cause you have to consider that if they halve the rations, they can eventually cut down on the blood trust donations, or they can repurpose some of that blood for people who urgently need transfusions rather than a bunch of blood-sucking freaks, you know?”

Before Faris can even come up with a retort, Josh stands up and loudly announces, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

The table falls completely silent. Even Josh’s mum and aunt and his sister’s friends stop short within their respective discussions.

“Is everything alright, Luv?” the aunt asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit full, I think I ate too much.” Josh presses down on his stomach to underline his words, and presumably also so the aunt won’t notice when he pinches the back of Faris’ arm. “I’ll probably drink some water and have a lie down if it doesn’t get better.”

Josh gives the rest of the table an angelic pointy-fanged smile. When his mum asks him if he’s sure, he insists for her not to worry and bends down to hug her around the shoulders. Faris is nauseated, and he watches Josh disappear through the patio door.

For a second, the silence around the table persists. Faris pointedly moves away from the cousin, and by proxy her boyfriend, and he goes back to his ugly bleeding ice cream cake to avoid any conversation. The air feels unwelcoming, more so than it did earlier, makes it all the more obvious that he’s an outsider, only here as Josh’s guest. Even then, he’s a guest who’d been invited under false pretences.

The cake’s finished sooner than he would have liked, and it sits heavy in his stomach like a solid block of ice. He doesn’t know if it would be acceptable to ask for another piece, not without Josh here, so he only spoons up all the leftover melted ice cream in the most graceful manner possible before he pushes the plate away from him on the tablecloth.

“Your cake is very tasty, Mrs H,” he says, since he feels it’d be rude to _not_ say anything.

“Thank you, dear,” Josh’s mum says. “Would you like any more?”

“Cheers, but I’m stuffed, thank you.” Faris folds his hands in his lap, unsure where to take this conversation. He wants to find an exit, and actually, he knows exactly what his exit is.

“Oh, by the way, please call me Carol.”

“Okay.” That’s it, the part where he has to get away before this situation grows even more over his head. Faris stands up from his seat on the patio bench and says, “I should go check on her, just in case.” The word feels strange when it slips out, and he knows it’s not been long enough, it can’t have possibly been long enough for him to feel genuine non-acted worry about Josh. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, it’s fine, Luv,” Josh’s mum says. She plants one warm hand on Faris’ forearm again when he’s next to her on his way to the screen door.

Faris absently wonders if she can feel something off, whether it’s his temperature or his blood pressure, and also whether she can tell that his anxiety is slowly rising from its Clonazepam-induced coma.

“I just want you to know, Faris, if you and Ev are intending to start a family I’ll be fully behind you the whole time.”

Faris has absolutely no idea what to say to that. “Thank you.” He tries to remember his fake straight boyfriend backstory and says, “I don’t think we’re planning on that until we’ve both got stable employment, though.”

He smiles, but it’s one of those customer service smiles he had to practice in front of the mirror. It’s _fake_ and Josh’s mum has to realise it, she has to realise something is off about the whole situation. Faris turns around and slips through the patio door before she can react.

“Evelyn?” he shouts, and again, the word seems to get stuck in his throat with how false it feels. He pushes the door shut behind him and repeats, more quietly, “Josh?”

–

Faris figures there can’t be that many rooms Josh might have wandered off to. He opens the first door he sees to find a bathroom, and then, on the next door, a bedroom. His sister’s bedroom, quite obviously. He’s not sure what he expected, but it was probably exactly that. The room is painted a minty blue with fairy lights and bunting hanging from the ceiling. Faris presumes this is what the average girl’s room looks like, but then, he hasn’t been in that many girls’ rooms to be certain. On the bed, between a mountain of pink and purple throw pillows, lies a black-and-white lump.

Score.

“Josh?” Faris does feel slightly uncomfortable stepping further into the room, his boots too dirty for the fluffy white carpet. He perches himself on the corner of the bed next to the lump. “Are you pretending to be pregnant?”

“What?” Josh’s head turns around and out of the big pillow he’d had it buried in.

“That was not part of the plan.”

“No.” Josh’s eyes pop out comically wide when he says it, as if it took that long for the information to reach his brain. “Oh my God, no.”

“Well, your ma seems to think we’re starting a family,” Faris says. He shifts to sit properly on the mattress, since there’s more than enough space.

Maybe it’s only that particular aspect that makes the story funny to Josh, or _maybe_ that took even longer to get through to him, but slowly, slowly his face cracks open and he laughs. It’s the particularly annoying high-pitched hyena one he’s got.

“ _Josh_ ,” Faris insists. “Josh, please.”

Josh only continues laughing. He holds his belly with it and all. Faris supposes he would find this situation funny, too, if it wasn’t vaguely terrifying and incredibly alienating. He reaches out and strikes Josh right across his thigh, which serves to shut him up at least.

“Josh. Please tell your family that you’re _not pregnant_.”

One last cackle slips out from Josh’s mouth, more of a snort, really. “Yeah. I will. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

Josh picks himself up from the bed to lean back against the wall, careful to not dislodge the tapestry hung there. He pats the hollow left behind in the mattress and duvet as an invitation for Faris to come sit all the way on the bed, and Faris accepts after he’s pulled his boots off.

For a barely perceptible second, it’s quiet, and Faris remembers the reason why he came to check on Josh in the first place.

“So,” he says.

“So,” Josh repeats.

“You alright?” Faris goes to sit with his knees to his chest, somewhat self-conscious of whether he should really be putting his sweaty feet onto the immaculate bedsheets. “Why’d you _really_ want to go inside?”

“You know.” Josh says it very pointedly, like that’s all he’s going to spit out without humming and hawing. “Just wanted to get away from them for a bit.” Which isn’t much of an answer, either.

Faris exhales out a laugh.

“You were getting a bit heated over that discussion with Marcus out there.”

“Well, he’s a bigot.”

The room’s dark enough that Faris pulls off his sunglasses, but still he automatically squints when his eyes adjust. Really, the shiner’s not anywhere near as bad as he’d made it sound to Josh’s mum, only a bit of swelling around the eye and some discolouration. Josh pulls a face either way.

“You look like a train wreck,” he says dryly. “Should’ve left those glasses off and given my ma a right shock.”

“Thanks.” Faris pops the end of one temple into his mouth to have something to do, and he says, “I think my eyes are too sensitive for that right now.”

 _Because I’m a Vampire_ , he thinks to himself. If Josh asked him why, he could technically tell him now and get it over with. Keyword being _could could could could could_ , if the thought of it didn’t make him feel like a brick had been jammed down his windpipe.

“Strange to think your cousin would let _him_ put his dick in,” he says instead.

“Please,” Josh says and gives another ugly snort. “My family’s really not any better than him.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Like… they’re not _Tories_ , you know, they’ve got some morals. They're too poor to be Tories. But they’re still incredibly haemophobic.”

Faris exhales out a huff and doesn’t want to say any more than that.

“I mean, there’s a difference between making a joke about filthy haemos once in awhile and actually calling them bloodsuckers to their faces.” Josh pulls his feet up to sit in a position that matches Faris’, and he buries his face in his knees. “They’re so embarrassing,” he says.

“You’re ashamed of your family.” It wasn’t really meant to be a question.

“ _Obviously_ I’m ashamed of my family.” Josh makes some indefinable noise and fidgets, and he says, “I mean, you went to _boarding school_.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Your dad’s a surgeon, for fuck’s sake.” Josh fidgets with his own fingers, peels at a bit of skin that had come loose, and he says, “I mean, compared to that, my dad works in a sheet metal factory, and when I was fourteen, he got laid off for making haemophobic comments to a Vee co-worker. It's _normal_ to be ashamed of that.”

Faris has no idea what to say to that. He wants to comfort Josh, pull him out of his slouch and that moody mumbly tone of voice he’s gotten into, but he doesn’t know how to. He says, “Oh.”

“Yeah. My family had money troubles for the next few years after that, so my parents both started drinking a lot.”

“Josh,” Faris says, not sure what else he could possibly say.

Apparently, the expression on his face says something entirely else, because Josh quickly says, “Sorry, I didn’t want you to think my family is, like… abusive. They never hit me or anything like that.”

“You get jumpy when you’ve broken a glass.”

“It’s just the noise it makes when it does,” Josh insists. “I’m just saying. I’ve got my reasons to be ashamed of my family.”

“They didn’t seem that bad,” Faris says, and immediately realises what a stupid thing to say that is. “Like… I would’ve had no idea.” Which only serves to put his foot in his mouth even _deeper_.

Josh snorts and shrugs, but it sounds spiteful. “My ma only likes you ‘cause she’s glad I’m not a lesbian anymore, you know.” He fidgets some more when he says it, like he doesn’t _want to_ keep talking, but he does anyway. “‘cause Louise had her first boyfriend when I was at university and he was Bangladeshi, and she hated him so much.”

Faris says, “Oh.”

“They’re really not any better than Marcus is.”

“Is that why you asked me to come along? So you could spite your mum?”

Josh huffs out an indefinable sound. “No, I asked you ‘cause you’re my best mate, not ‘cause you’re brown. And because I couldn’t possibly sit through that by myself.” He makes another noise and buries his face deeper in his knees. “I’m not crying.”

Faris says, “Okay.”

“I’m actually not.” Josh rests his chin upon his folded arms upon his knees so he can face Faris, and he says, “See?”

His eyeliner’s smudged with sweat as it was before, but his eyes are completely dry.

“Yeah.”

“Just really wish I could have, like… a frustrated cry. It’s all so much, it just stresses me out, you know,” Josh says. He scratches at his leg, above the cuff of his sock. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just weird, ‘cause…” He fidgets some more, scratches some more, and says, “If you think I’m weird now and my family’s fucked up, I totally understand, you know?”

His face does a strange slip for a second, then. Somewhere beyond that defiant pout a softness emerges, and Faris finally reaches out his arm to throw it across Josh’s shoulders. Josh doesn’t flinch.

“No, Josh. Listen.”

He swallows, still not sure what to say but certain that he’s got to say _something_. Of course, the part of his brain that won’t cooperate suggests for the worst possible thing he could say now. _Vampire Vampire Vampire Vampire Vampire_ , a frantic endless loop in the back of his head, and probably the worst thing he could say at any given moment, too. Josh exhales through his nose and it sounds like a dry sniff.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Faris begins, still not sure what he’s going to say. “It’s not like my growing up was much better.”

Josh makes an indefinable noise.

“Like, I’d rather have grown up working class living with my shitty family than middle class at boarding school and have no one at all to turn to when my brain started shitting itself.” He adds, at the realisation that he might have just put his foot in his mouth _again_ , “Sorry if that’s insensitive for me to say.”

Josh only shrugs and makes a clicking noise. Faris feels uniquely out-of-his-depth, which is a strange phrase to describe such a strange, uncomfortable state of being.

“You’re awful at this.”

“‘m just saying.” Faris leans in closer to rub his nose into Josh’s thundercloud of hair. He adds, “Don't know what to say.”

“'s fine.”

Josh smells of lemon shampoo and Lynx and sweat, as he always does. It's a nice change from the strange fabric softener scent of an unfamiliar house and the ever-present stench of meat.

“You smell real nice.”

Faris wants to rub his nose deeper into Josh's neck, wants to sniff and taste him all over. Maybe later, tonight's a Sleepover night, girls-only, and Rhys has a DJ set too, so they'd have the flat all for themselves. Also, James isn't home, if they want to do it in a bigger bed…

Josh's heartbeat throbs right underneath his nose when he moves in deeper, the big jugular vein or maybe the carotid artery, Faris can't tell _for sure_. In any case, it carries the copper-penny smell of blood along with it, right through the thin layer of skin and muscle and fat and everything else. Faris isn't so much hungry for it as it's comforting, the same comfort that Josh's overall smell brings. He wonders whether all blood smells the same or if it's only Josh in particular that makes him feel like that.

“Mm, stop sniffing me.”

“But you smell so _good_.” Faris licks some of the salty sweat off Josh's skin as if to prove a point, and that at least gets a giggle out of him.

“Stop it, Faris,” he insists, cackle still in his voice.

Still, Faris stops. “Am sorry.”

He nuzzles his face into Josh's neck one more time, though, just for the familiar feeling of sweaty skin on skin. He'd be content to just stay like this, so he does. Josh doesn't complain. It's quiet for a long second, only the far-off voices from the back garden providing a bit of ambiance. Faris is glad he can't understand what they're talking about.

Finally, Josh asks, “What was that like for you?”

“What?” Faris asks back.

“You know,” Josh insists. His head bumps into Faris' in a strange nudging gesture. “Growing up having brain problems?”

Faris exhales. “Well.” The last time he answered a question like that was four years ago, when he'd just moved to London and had to find a new therapist, and he'd much rather keep it that way. “You've seen my scars.”

Josh makes a gentle noise of understanding and only leans a little bit further into Faris' side. He's got his own set of them, a bar code etched into his upper arm, but his healed much more smoothly, very obviously not the type of scars that'd been picked at and retraced over and over. He _understands_ that part, but Faris isn't sure if he's going to understand all the rest of it. He needs a fag.

“I tried to kill myself when I was seventeen,” he finally says. “Sleeping pills. I had a prescription at the time, because I've always had trouble sleeping, so I took ten in one go.”

Maybe he said too much, because Josh makes a choked off noise of vague horror. Still, he doesn't think he can just leave it hanging like that. His body feels too loose, like it's dissolving into its individual components, so he withdraws his arm from Josh's shoulder to make himself into a tight cube.

“How...” Josh starts.

Faris cuts him off. “The first thing I remember is I woke up in the hospital to my mum crying.” He needs that fag _so badly_. “I did it while I was at school, so I guess housekeeping found me after I passed out. They kept me on the psychiatric ward for a week, after they made sure I wasn't going to die. That's how I got the OCD diagnosis.”

“Oh.” The way he says it makes it sound apparent that Josh doesn't have anything else to say, except then he adds, “I mean, why'd you do it?”

“I guess exactly because of my brain problems.” Faris realises what that sounds like almost immediately after he's said it. He adds, “But I didn't have voices in my head telling me to kill myself or anything like that. That's stupid.

“I just had them point out everything I do is _wrong_ , somehow, so they made me do everything over and again until it was just right, and they made me really paranoid that anything could go wrong.

“So my marks dropped down by a lot because I'd never been good at maths or science or anything like that, and that just made me even more anxious since I was supposed to do my A levels that year. And I had to stop playing football, too, and I never made any friends at school that could've helped me.

“I guess mainly I just did it because I wanted some peace and quiet for once.”

For a second after that, the room is too silent once again. Faris definitely said too much this time, he revealed so much more than Josh did just now. The inside of his skin itches with what's not CBHS for once but pure anxiety.

“But you do hear voices inside your head?”

“I guess.” Faris scratches the side of his leg through his jeans, nails filed too short to feel any real relief from it. “It's not, like, a human voice, and obviously I know it's not real. It's more like an impulse.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Yeah. I do get the audiovisual hallucinations when I'm unmedicated, but they still don't know if it's related to my OCD or a separate psychotic disorder, so that's fun.”

“Okay,” Josh says.

It's too quiet again, so quiet that not only the sound but all motion seems to have ceased, all the dust in the room settled. Faris is almost afraid to breathe. He knows that quiet, the one that arises when he's said too much and his brain problems go from a harmless quirk to something that drives people away. That was more or less the reason he broke up with Holly way back at university. He _needs needs needs needs needs_ a fag.

Josh's hand startles him when it comes to lie on top of his. “Hey.”

Faris maybe whips his head around a little too fast.

“It's okay,” Josh insists, and he's insistent when he links their fingers and pulls Faris' hand down between their bodies, too.

Faris doesn't resist at all, limbs limp like spaghetti once again. “Okay,” he repeats.

Josh's hand is so warm in his, rough from playing guitar. He tries not to think about how his own hand probably feels like a dead fish, especially when Josh squeezes a little bit tighter.

“I'm glad you told me that.”

“You sound like my therapist,” Faris says, and immediately feels kind of bad for it. “Sorry.”

“I really mean it,” Josh adds. He leans a little further ways in so their upper arms are pressed against each other, and he adds, “I'm not gonna think you're weird or anything because of that now.”

“Okay,” Faris says once again. “I won't think you're weird, either, 'cause of your family.”

Josh hums. He leans in to peck Faris' lips right when he isn't expecting it, but it doesn't startle him at all this time. “Thank you,” he says.

The moment is paradoxical, both complete in itself and still feeling like it's missing something. Faris nudges his head against Josh's in what he hopes is a romantic gesture. He's not sure when it came to this.

“So,” Josh says.

“So,” Faris repeats, drawing the O out for as long as he can without sounding obnoxious.

“You wanna go back outside and see if there's any of that ice cream cake left?”

“Not really.”

Josh snorts. “I'm not shagging you in my sister's room.”

“You're really not,” Faris repeats, and he makes it sound like a question despite himself. The last thing he wants to do is have sex within a thirty-foot radius of a bunch of middle-aged women who are convinced that Josh is _pregnant with his child_.

“Am really not.” Josh leans in to peck him on the lips again and says, “You're my boyfriend who's just met my parents for the first time, remember.”

Faris only laughs. “But I don't wanna go back outside to them.”

“Come on,” Josh insists. “Might get another piece of cake out of it.”

“I said I don't like cake.”

“Might get some more meat out of it.”

–

They hold hands when they walk back out. The moment feels strange, like coming down from a high or snapping out of an episode, a distinct feeling of returning to the real world from somewhere entirely else. Faris can hear the real world before he can actually see it, and the real world speaks with angry voices. He very distinctly hopes it's not Josh's parents who are fighting, but Josh seems to be completely oblivious to it.

“You okay?” Josh asks.

Faris guesses it must have shown on his face. “I guess.”

They stop dead on their way as soon as Josh's pushed open the patio door. It's Josh's cousin and her awful boyfriend rather than what Faris had suspected, but they’re standing around the deserted table and shouting just like how it went in his imagination.

“I can't believe you'd think you can say things like that about my family. I care about those people, Marcus, I can't believe you think you've got the right to pass your judgement on them 'cause of your bullshit economics degree or whatever.”

Time to zone out. Faris can feel Josh's hand squeezing his, which is somewhat of a comfort.

Josh rolls his eyes and whispers, “Yikes.”

Faris just glares at him.

“Happens all the time. She's always had the worst taste in boys.”

Actually, they should probably leave to wherever the other Haywards have gone before either of the two of them realise they're being watched.

Marcus shoots back, “I'm sorry but I do think I'm allowed to have an opinion. You're blowing this completely out of proportion, Kim.”

“You've got a _classist_ opinion.”

Faris probably should zone right back out. That out-of-his-depth sensation is creeping up his spine again. What's worse probably is that he seems to be the only one feeling that way, judged by Josh's apathetic expression as if all he had to bemoan about this was, _not again_. His head feels cotton ball-cloudy like the sensation of smoking weed but much more unpleasant.

“Ma said I should come find you and bring you back to the kitchen, we're all in there, we went back inside when Marcus and Kim started arguing.”

That's Josh's sister, when did she enter the room? Her name was Louise, wasn’t it? Faris tries to recall that information for something to ground him in reality. Louise Hayward. Eighteen years old, today is her birthday. She's got a poster of Taylor Swift on her bedroom wall. Faris can hear her voice talking to Josh through his haze.

“...said something really classist to her mum and Kim got offended. She's literally the only one who's surprised by this turn of events.”

At least, he _thinks_ she's saying that. Something is wrong, Josh and Louise are both entirely too casual in this situation. Faris can't bring himself to focus on what they're saying, or what Marcus and the cousin are shouting at each other, for that matter. His brain's crackling inside the haze like tuning an old radio to white noise, that uncertain point between two channels. In the same vein, his eyes lose focus, too, Faris blinks one, two, three, four, five times and can't keep his vision from blurring, and suddenly…

Suddenly, the shouting and any and all conversation is cut short when something shatters with a boom. Faris' eyes widen in surprise, and next thing, they focus, because he immediately knows where the sound came from. The copper penny stink of blood swims in the air and the deep red liquid flows from Marcus’ hand, one of the veins there nicked when he smashed his glass.

When the two of them start screaming this time, it's different. The scene is cast in slow-flowing honey, maybe amber. Through the mess in his brain, Faris only notices the passage of time through the bleeding wound and its hypnotic pulsing.

Louise says, “I'll go get Ma.” Probably.

The stain on Marcus’ stupid polo shirt grows larger and larger before Kim wrenches his hand away. Maybe it's his drink, maybe it's the red Ribena that spilled from the glass that's mingling with the blood. Marcus’ stupid hateful Tory lips are moving and Faris can't hear him, his stupid head won't stop talking even when his girlfriend forces him into sitting down. They're yelling at each other again and there is _so much blood_.

Faris never considered himself to be haemophobic, scared-of- _blood_ haemophobic, that is. He's deeply afraid of needles, a fear that goes beyond the itch of the pin-prick, but he's never felt particularly repulsed by blood. Maybe even had a taste of it when he was picking at his skin as a teen, the sweet copper-penny taste, and still, or maybe because of that, he recoils now. That is to say, he _tries_.

He also knows the whole _predator_ stereotype is nothing but bullshit, whether that's patriarchal or racist or haemophobic. Needing blood to survive doesn't mean Vees see other people as a food source. It's made up bullshit propaganda meant to demonise Vampires, nothing else, and still, Faris is transfixed by the blood that won't stop flowing from Marcus’ stupid hand. He's still yelling at his girlfriend when she tries to grab his wrist and wrench it into a different position, but in the static that's taken over his head Faris can't hear a word of it. He thinks of the sound of blood flow itself, the ocean white noise of holding a seashell up to his ear, and maybe that's part of the static or maybe his brain's only driving itself mad once again.

It's just it would be _so easy_ , only the half-closed screen door that's blocking his path, Marcus too distracted by whatever he's hurling abuse at his girlfriend over, and his blood's already flowing out. Faris wouldn't have to hurt him or even suck it out of his hand. Not that he wouldn't deserve it, but Faris could drink straight out of the wound with no chance of infection or inflicting additional harm. It would be _ethical_ , sweet, copper-penny ethically sourced blood from a guy who more than deserved a good flesh wound. It's the perfect crime, if it's even a crime at all, and the blood's still fucking _pulsing_.

Focus. Focus, focus, focus, focus. Faris focusses on his own pulse instead since his heart's beating up a storm.

A heart's really just a pump, is it not, the whole circulatory system is just a series of pipes and the heart keeps the blood flowing. That's even more obvious considering Marcus' hand is a fountain of the stuff.

One, two, three, four, five pumps.

Faris presses his tongue up into the dome of his mouth where it perpetually tastes like nasty rotten Vampire blood.

“Faris? Faris?”

Next thing, someone slaps him in the arm, and Faris realises it's Louise, the same person who'd been calling his name, too. He wonders if she's called for him any more before then.

“Are you okay?”

Faris doesn't respond. Maybe he spends a little too long not responding, because next thing Josh is waving a hand right in front of his face.

“Faz? Are you having one of your episodes?”

“I don't know,” Faris says, surprised the words are coming out clearly at all. “Maybe.”

One of them puts a firm hand on his back and walks him away from the patio and Marcus’ stupid hand.

“Ma called 999 'cause she says she couldn't find the first aid kit,” Louise says when they all reach the kitchen.

“That's good,” Josh says, but his voice sounds unusually hollow.

Faris would comment on it if he had the capacity to form words, and if it weren't for the fact that his own voice _always_ sounds like that. There's a bench at the kitchen table, and Faris automatically sits down next to Josh when he does, even if it means their thighs are squashed against each other. He grabs Josh's hand to squeeze it almost instantly.

“Faris, Ev, it's good you came back here,” Josh's mum says, she calls Josh _Ev_ rather than his full girl name. Her voice still has that warm tone, the same subtle olive warm that she and Josh have under their skin, but even Faris notices the layer of shock that's covering it.

“Marcus is a bit of a twat, isn't he,” Josh's dad says matter-of-fact. Faris isn't sure if he likes him for that or not.

He busies himself with pulling his pen from the jacket pocket where he keeps his sketchbook, it's one of those fancy biro pens he stole from work with a clicking bit at the end and a long metal thing he can flick back and forth.

“Obviously he's a massive one,” Louise says.

Faris clicks his biro pen one, two, three, four, five times. He stops paying attention to what they're talking about. Josh's dad says one thing and Louise says another, and the mum and aunts all just talk over each other, so obviously he's not needed in this conversation either way. Josh hasn't said anything since he sat down.

“Hey.” Faris turns his head to face Josh. “Are you alright?”

The only response he gets is a blank stare off Josh's pale face.

–

Josh makes an excuse to leave as soon as the ambulance shows up. When his mum asks if Marcus is going to be alright, one of the paramedics explains he'll need some stitches, nothing major. Faris thinks to himself that Marcus would have deserved _everything_ major, and it's the only thought in his copper-penny-intoxicated brain he doesn't feel guilty about having. Not too guilty, at least.

They hold hands on their way back to the car, too, and this time it's much more uncomfortable. Between them, a silence grows and persists. Faris stares at his shoes and doesn't have the energy to count his steps. The sensation of coming down from an episode is back, but not in a metaphorical way this time around. Faris hates the other half of that feeling, the part where his head feels too empty and floaty to function in the real world that crept up on him. It brings a distinct shame with it, too, and for once that's not because he's _crazy_ and everyone else knows it. He remembers the primal thirst a little too well, the second he caught a whiff of the blood and his instincts awakened.

Faris blinks and can't keep track of how many times, but it clears his head momentarily at least. “You're afraid of blood,” he says.

“Of course I'm afraid of blood.”

Josh rubs over the back of Faris' hand, and Faris can't help but wonder if his hands are too cold, too clammy, or if Josh can feel _it_.

“It's disgusting.” He kicks at a pebble with his scuffed-up Converses, Faris can see it from the corner of his eye.

Faris doesn't know what to say. The roof of his mouth still tastes like rot and petrol. At the same time, he can't help but contrast it with the reek of blood much sweeter.

Josh says, “I guess I get why people like Marcus are like that. Why they're haemophobic. I think a big part of it is just the disgust at the blood.”

 _That's like saying that you understand why people are homophobic because some of them think anal sex is gross._ Faris thinks that, but he doesn't say it.

He says, instead, “Hm.”

The drive home is quiet. Josh puts on Radio 1 and Faris doesn't have anything to say that’s of enough importance to justify turning the awful music down. After he's been dropped off on his doorstep, Faris goes straight to bed. On Sunday morning, he texts Nick that he won't be able to make it in today either.

_Sorry about that. I think ill feel better tomorrow, I'll come back in for my shift then._

Right after he's sent it, he shuts his phone off for good.


	9. nadir

Faris does indeed drag himself to work on Monday morning, but when he checks his mailbox on his way out, he immediately wants to go back to bed. The envelope is heavy in his hand even before he spots the tell-tale blue National Health logo in the top corner. Faris opens the letter when he's sat on the top deck of the bus, even if he already knows fully well what he's going to find inside. According to the stamp, the letter was sent out almost a week ago, so it must’ve been waiting for him since about Thursday. Faris doesn’t know whether the revelation would’ve saved him any trouble if he received it _before_ slamming his face into the pavement. He tucks the pages into his jacket on the short walk from the bus stop to the shop's rear entrance, but when he walks into the back room, he already finds Nick waiting there for him.

“Oh, hi.”

“Hello, Faris,” Nick says. “Do take a seat.”

Faris blinks behind his shades for a second. Nick somehow manages to have a stupid smug air of superiority around him even when he's wearing that ugly blue polo shirt with the shop's logo embroidered on it. Faris is going to put off changing into his uniform for now. He blinks again, and then another three times.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Faris removes his shades to clip them to his collar, and he pulls out the chair across from Nick.

“Your chin's healing up really well.”

“I guess it is.” Faris reflexively glides his hand over the scabs, even if he fully well knows he's not supposed to do that. Touching only leads to picking.

“How'd you manage to do that?”

“Heat stroke, probably.” Faris doesn't look at Nick's smug hipster face, but at his arms crossed in front of his chest. Below the logo, another line of embroidery reads _Manager_. “So why did you want to talk to me?”

Really, he already knows perfectly well why Nick wants to talk to him. He's only been fired once, from that awful video game testing job he had during his second year of uni, but he does have a basic gist of how it happens.

Nick exhales a heavy sigh and his torso heaves.

“Look, Faris. I know your absences from work as of late haven't been your fault. Not _entirely_ your fault.” Nick raises one hand to stroke his own chin, to illustrate what he's just said.

Faris furrows his brow.

“Sorry.” Nick laughs a hollow customer service laugh. “You're actually the most hard-working we've had on staff since I started here.”

“Thank you,” Faris says, even if he immediately realises he shouldn't have said that.

Nick sighs again and it sounds a lot more genuine. “Look, this is never easy, you know. The problem's not that you don't work hard enough, or that you take too much time off. The problem is…”

Nick has disturbingly hairy arms. Faris wonders if he's genuinely never noticed that before or if he's only focussing on them now to distract himself from this awful conversation. He also wonders if Nick ever gets any stray hairs caught in the band of his ugly designer watch.

“I'm just not sure if you were really cut out to work in retail.”

Faris' immediate thought is _that's quite an inane statement to make_ , considering it's pretty much obvious.

Nick's hairy arms repeat, “This is never an easy conversation to have.”

He folds his fingers instead to make a stack of knuckles. Faris is surprised to find that his fingers aren't also hairy. The way Nick says it, it almost sounds like he wants Faris to feel sorry for him because he has to fire his employees.

“You let me work here for almost two years.”

Nick sighs once again. “See, the problem is most customers don't want to be served by a cashier who can't make eye contact and who speaks in a voice like… like your voice.” He seems visibly uncomfortable with the conversation now, as if _he's_ the one about to be laid off.

Faris presses his tongue up to the roof of his mouth to subdue the nauseous sensation of vague second-hand embarrassment. He says, “I have brain problems. You know that.”

“Well, it's not just that.”

Nick clears his throat, as if he's trying to stretch out the conversation more before he has to get to the inevitable part where he lays Faris off. If the anticipation up his back wasn't terrifying, Faris would find it funny.

“I've been checking the books, and someone's been stealing money from the register.”

“That was Clarissa,” Faris says.

“Well, no.” Nick tightens the knuckle stack and says, “I've given Clarissa a talking to about her habit of taking notes from the till, I think I’ll have to lay her off, too. I'm talking about the fact that someone stole about five quid worth of small change.”

For some reason, that does it. Like the shatter of a windowpane, that statement breaks through the near-impenetrable haze that's been following Faris around since Saturday afternoon. The dread that had been looming over him jumps down onto his shoulders to attack. He's still got enough from his last paycheque to afford the rent for August in his bank account right now, plus about two hundred he's got saved up, and three full shifts worth of pay if Nick decides to still give him the cheque for last week. It's enough to get him through most of August, probably, enough time for him to find the next job, if it weren't for the fact that _nobody would hire him_. He's too mentally ill, too gay, too brown, too _Vee_. There the word is again, the endless loop in his head.

_Vampire Vampire Vampire Vampire Vampire_.

For lack of anything else to do to cope, Faris balls his hands underneath the tabletop.

“Faris?” Nick pulls one hand out from its entanglement and waves it in his field of vision.

Faris blinks another five times.

“You still here?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Faris covers the letter from the NHS where it's stiff inside his jacket pocket, and he says, “I'm sorry about this. I've had a really stressful day already.” He closes his fist around the leather and the paper inside, feels the crunch when he hears it crumble. “I got my test results in the post today.”

Faris raises his glance just in time to see Nick's reaction, his eyes go wide and his eyebrows fly up. Again, it would be comical if it wasn't absolutely terrifying.

“Oh, Faris,” Nick says.

“They're positive,” Faris says, as if that was in any way necessary.

“Okay.” Nick places his hands flat on the table now, and he says, “First of all I just want you to know that it's not a death sentence.”

“I _know_ it's not a death sentence,” Faris says back.

“You know they've got antiretroviral treatments now to control it, to protect your immune system, I think the NHS usually covers it… That's good if you know about it.”

“Wait.” Faris furrows his brow. “You thought I meant I was HIV-positive.”

It would be comical if it wasn't also _completely surreal and vaguely terrifying_. Faris tries to think of a better way to describe the mood of the situation, and all he can come up with is _Kafkaesque_.

“I don't have AIDS, I meant that I'm a Vampire,” he says. Then, he adds, “I understand if you want to lay me off even more now. Considering the whole climate.”

Nick folds his hands back together. His nails are filed short and shiny clean. “Well, no, it's… I'm fine with that. One of my uncles is Vee.”

He says it with the same tone of voice that someone else might use to talk about their gay cousin. Faris doesn't know what to say, other than to laugh, but he realises soon enough that he probably should not do that. The way it feels is an appropriate level of Kafkaesque.

Nick scratches at his one knuckle and asks, “And… did you register with the Blood Trust already?”

“Not yet. I've not really thought about it.” Well, he hasn't. Faris hasn't thought about much in general considering he's spent most of the last few days in a state somewhere between drowsy and agitated. “I'm not sure if I should.”

He lowers his gaze further now, to look at his own hands cupped into fists in his lap.

Nick exhales again. “Right, look.”

Faris feels he should probably _actually_ look Nick in the eyes for this. Or at least at his nose, which is close enough to fool most people. Nick's eyes are a weird colour between green and brown, Faris thinks at least.

“Originally I was going to keep you on the payroll for the next two weeks after I lay you off now. As a form of redundancy pay, you know?”

Faris only blinks. Five times, to be exact.

“But for your situation I'll make an exception.” Nick leans forward, adjusts his posture, and Faris refocuses his eyes to take it in fully. “Okay, Faris?”

“Okay?”

“I'll let you have another full month's worth of your current pay. Enough so you can sort yourself out another job.”

“Okay,” Faris repeats once again. “Thank you. I don't know how to react to that.”

“It's okay,” Nick says. “You don't have to react to that.”

It's a smidgen of his usual obnoxiously smug hipster demeanour, and somehow, at this particular moment, it's comforting. Just a touch of normalcy in the surreal moment.

Faris exhales deeply and pushes his chair away from the table. “I guess I'll better take my leave, then.”

After he's shook hands with Nick again and vaguely listened to his words, Faris gathers up what few belongings he's kept around the back room. He lights a cigarette as soon as he steps out of the door, a strange halo of that Kafkaesque feeling following him all around.

–

Depression is strange.

After he went home on Monday, Faris crawled back into bed with his laptop, and he hasn't really moved from his spot since then. Well, he's gone to shower twice, and he leaves his room to piss a few times a day, although the empty water bottle next to the bed is looking more and more tempting.

In a surprisingly wise move, he'd previously wandered down to the Sainsbury's Local at the bottom of the street to restock the cabinets and the fridge, so he's been mostly living off cold cuts and crisps with houmous since. Now that he knows what's causing his cravings, the meat no longer does anything to alleviate them, but still, it's tasty and it doesn't require an actual effort to cook or eat. He's also been eating plenty of Cadbury Cream Eggs, and most of the fruit from the bowl to keep it from rotting away. Faris absolutely isn't in the mood to deal with rot right now, considering what his insides feel like.

Faris remembers being a teenager, the period before the hospitalisation when they prescribed him the SSRIs to stabilise his moods and make him more receptive to treatment. He still takes the pills every morning, but he's not sure if they work anymore by this point. Now that he recalls, depression felt completely different in his memory; this time, it's not an undying sadness as much as it's the complete absence of emotion, an inescapable bleakness.

He spends the days going through his Netflix recommendations, almost entirely documentaries, but he can't bring himself to actually pay attention. Once in awhile, he opens Facebook to check his feed, but he can only scroll so far until he gets to a song or Instagram photo shared by Josh and has to close the tab. Faris doesn't ever turn his phone back on.

–

Rhys is on the news on a Sunday morning. They share a link to the video on the BBC News iPlayer on Facebook and write, _Absolutely devastated and disgusted with recent events. Friends of BedMates, please dont worry about us – the shop will remain open during our usual hours, including V positive Wednesdays. Take care XX_

Faris has to squint at his phone's screen where he's holding it above his face on the bed. Rhys' actual post is a few hours old already, the title of the video reads, _Vampiric Terrorism Targets Gay Community_. The time now is 3.36 PM, but Faris would have estimated it as much earlier.

He doesn't remember when he woke up, dozing in and out of consciousness for some time with a sting along his throat and down in his chest, not the windpipe but the other one, the gullet. Faris wants to compare it to extreme hunger or thirst, perhaps a mix of both with the abysmal taste of copper pennies and bitter venom soaking the roof of his mouth. Unlike the phantom flavour he usually has inside his mouth, it's distinctly _real_ , like tasting blood after running a mile, and no amount of meat from the fridge or water will make it go away. Withdrawal symptoms, no point in denying that. Faris rolls onto his side so he no longer has to hold the phone up over his head, away from the light that slips in through his blinds, before he clicks the link and presses play.

“Another body part was found in conjunction with Vampiric terrorism in the early hours of the morning today,” the newsreader says with his sombre tone of voice.

Faris shuts his eyes. The screen of his phone is turned all the way down to the dimmest setting, and still it's _so bright_.

“Much like the first victim after the death of Paul Wallis, the dead was discovered in the London Borough of Hackney. In addition to the presumed radical background, a homophobic motive may be implied in this case. Perpetrators are still at large. We are now live with Christopher Partridge at the scene of crime.”

There is a short pause before a different man's voice answers, one of those polished booming reporter voices.

“Thank you, Martin,” reporter man Christopher Partridge answers. “I am standing outside renowned feminist novelty shop BedMates where parts of a body were dumped in the early hours of the morning. Here with me is Rhys Eileen Webb, owner of the shop and the person who discovered the body.”

Faris had almost forgotten that Rhys' middle name was that. He opens his eyes.

Chris Reporterman, a pale man with deep ginger hair, says, “Hello, Rhys.”

Rhys looks to be in a _state_. “Hello, Chris,” they say, voice matted in a way Faris has never heard them before.

On the bottom of the screen, the little caption reads, _Rhys E Webb, Gay Activist and Shop Owner_.

“Rhys, I understand the recent events must have been very emotionally taxing for you. But do you think you can describe when and how you discovered the body?”

“I came home at four or five in the morning,” Rhys says.

That's correct, they had a Supines gig last night, but Faris wouldn't have gone even if he had remembered in time. Now, they've still got traces of mascara and eyeliner on their face, hair wet from the shower, but that can't hide that they obviously didn't get a single hour of sleep.

“You see, I wanted to cook myself another meal before I went to bed, 'cause I'd spent the whole evening performing on stage, I am a drag queen in my free time, so I was still awake at around six-thirty…”

“What happened at six-thirty. Rhys?”

“There was a very loud thud at the front of the house, my flat is right above the shop. I heard the sound of glass shattering, but I waited to go downstairs for a few more minutes, I checked from my window first to make sure there was no one waiting there.”

“You didn't check the window immediately to catch a glimpse of the perpetrator?”.

Faris tries to look for the BedMates display window, but the screen is too tiny and too blinding, and Rhys' head blocks out almost all of it as it is. He thinks he can make out jagged black spray paint lines on the brick façade, but no individual letters or even words.

“I didn't, I was in shock.” Rhys says, hollow as before. “In retrospect that was very foolish of me, wasn't it.”

“It's an entirely understandable reaction.” Reporterman says. “Do you have anything you'd like to say to the still at large perpetrators, or to our viewers as a whole?”

“Well, more than anything else, I'm disgusted. Disappointed and disgusted in whoever did this.”

Rhys nods their head toward whatever is behind them, and Faris still can't see what they're referring to. The camera doesn't follow them.

“I've always considered the LGBT and Vee communities to have a lot in common historically, if you think about the AIDS crisis and the harsh ration cuts experienced by Vampires during the Thatcher years, so it's a shared history of being left to die by our governments. I think it's really important to keep that in mind, instead of the differences between us, and to keep fighting for each other's rights especially now that Vampire humanity rights have been attacked by a conservative administration once again.”

Rhys keeps talking and won't shut up. They appear to be wearing a dressing gown over their usual floral blouse, a gruesome grey colour that makes them appear even more washed-out, or maybe washed-up.

“If I can be frank, I'm not just devastated that things have come to this, I'm personally insulted,” Rhys goes on.

Faris closes out of the video before they can continue speaking.

He rubs his head into the pillowcase, rancid with old sweat and depression, and he shuts his eyes. His brain aches, not a true hurt but an overwhelming clutter of confusion. Maybe he should make the trip down to BedMates to check in on Rhys, just to make sure they're coping and not exhausting themself. Well, really, they've got Harry and Josh for that, but maybe Faris should still stop by to reassure Rhys that he himself is okay. He hasn't even come into BedMates once since the day before he smashed his face into the pavement, which was, technically speaking, last month.

Maybe he should take a shower first of all. Faris had been avoiding the mirror for a bit, but when he wanders into the bathroom, he figures he may as well face the facts.

The face of depression is characteristically anaemia-pallid, and maybe it's the contrast or the bags under his eyes have actually gotten deeper. His mum used to say that he got the tired eyes from his dad, Faris and all three of his brothers, and that sometimes, she thought it was an immigrant thing. Faris isn't sure if that's correct, but he's pretty sure that he's got two spots blooming on his one cheek, too. Maybe this is where the idea that Vampires don't show up in mirrors originally came from, outside of medieval haemophobic religious beliefs. Faris quickly averts his eyes and bends down to wash his hands to avoid his reflection.

–

Faris takes the bus down to BedMates. He knows he shouldn't, probably, should avoid spending money on public transport so he can save money on topping up his Oyster, but if he walks the shop will probably be closed by the time he gets there. If the shop's closed, there's literally no way he'll be able to avoid Josh, not if he and the Webbs are all upstairs in the flat at the same time, and Faris simply cannot have that. He'll make up for it by walking the way back.

Today's a surprisingly mild day, the heated-up rubbish stink gone for once when he steps out the door, but the sun is gleamingly bright even beneath its cover of clouds. The city seems too quiet just as well, and Faris supposes he understands, what's with the fearmongering dread of _what will happen next_ that seems to infuse everything.

He sits in the back of the deserted bus by the stairs that lead to the top deck, and the anxiety inside him only grows as he gets closer to the destination. How foolish it was of him to think he can avoid Josh that easily, as if there isn't an equally likely possibility that Rhys and Josh will both be working the shop right now. Maybe he should just see the damage for himself and then call Rhys later tonight, even if that means turning his phone back on.

The bus halts to a stop, and Faris alights. From the bus stop on the other side of the street it's four hundred steps to the front door of BedMates, which is eighty fives, which is sixteen fives. He hasn't counted the number from this side, though. Faris smokes a fag on his way, and it tastes like earth and the stink of singed fabric. He stares at his shoes on the pavement through his sunglasses rather than paying attention to where he's walking.

When he's counted to four hundred steps, he estimates he's close enough to the shop now, and when he raises his head, he finds that it's maybe twenty more steps down the road. Four hundred and twenty it is, then, but he's not bothered to make the obvious joke. There's no safety tape barring off the area around the shop like there had been at Lemon, the scene of crime already cleared off. Still, Faris feels an unsettling numbness as he approaches the shop front.

_FUCK GENTRIFICATION_ , the black spray paint scrawled across the top of the display window reads, and at the bottom, _FUCK HOMONATIONALIZM_ , both in a hurried, straight-lined script.

Between the two slogans, a hole gapes in the glass, covered only by a bin bag taped to the inside. The lingerie-clad mannequins, still fixed in their usual position, appear to have their eyeless heads turned towards the gash with a look of disgust on their lack of facial features. Once again, it's one of those things that would be funny in a vacuum, or viewed from a much bigger distance.

Above the Vee Positive sticker, a notice is posted on the door's glass panel that says more or less the same thing that Rhys had written in their Facebook post. Faris peers inside, only to see Harry advising a short boy with dyed emo hair who appears to hold a purple vibrator. Josh's behind the counter with his attention taken up by the Macbook in his lap as usual. For some strange reason, Faris' first thought is that he looks _normal_ , as if there was a reason for him not to. He's not the one with the viral chronic illness. Rhys is nowhere to be seen, however.

Faris creeps back away before anyone inside the shop could take notice of him looming behind the door. For a short second, he considers using his spare key to enter the flat, but given the circumstances, he should probably use the buzzer instead.

Instead of being let in, he gets Rhys' tinny voice from the intercom speaker. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Faris reflexively says back. “It's Faris.”

The buzz comes, and Faris enters. He feels a bit strange coming into the flat like this, without being invited over by Josh or following Josh back home, or for that matter, coming here while deliberately trying to _avoid_ Josh. Whether to take his boots off or not, he's not sure; on one hand, he'd rather not stick around, but at the same time, the thought of dirtying this house further stirs a deep disgust in his gut. Better to take them off.

The stairs creak underneath his socks when he walks up, the door to Josh's room at the top closed. A bit, it feels like how exploring an abandoned haunted house must feel, especially since Rhys is still nowhere to be seen and may as well be not there. On second thought, Faris also kind of feels like he's the one haunting the house.

“Rhys?” Faris asks into the flat in general when he's climbed to the top.

He walks into the big living space, only to find Rhys sat at the kitchen table.

“Hey,” they say.

The first thing Faris really notices is the overwhelming stink of cigarette smoke, and there's more of it wafting from the lit fag between Rhys' skinny fingers.

Rhys doesn't smoke. They're not a _health nut_ or anything, they roll their eyes at fad diets and have a whole speech about toxic gay male beauty standards ready for when someone asks them about clean eating, but they quit smoking eight years ago, they say. The only reason they even tolerate Josh indulging his weed habit in the flat is because having the smell of pot hang around the living room is somewhat preferable to making him roll a spliff and stand outside. Even then, they thoroughly Airwick the whole flat whenever Josh's finished smoking, so the stench metaphorically punches Faris right in the nose with his stupid heightened Vampire senses.

“Hey,” Faris says back. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Rhys says back. Their tone of voice makes it pretty obvious they're not, though.

They stand up to pull Faris into a tight hug, and he obliges. Rhys still carries the scent of their expensive conditioner and floral perfume underneath the cigarette smoke, still soft with pointy bits the way they always are. On the contrary, Faris wonders if he feels and smells different, and if Rhys could possibly figure it out from that alone. _It_.

“Are _you_ okay?” they ask when they've pulled back.

Faris doesn't know what to say, considering that everything he currently has to deal with probably doesn't have the same gravity as finding a body.

“I guess.”

Rhys retakes their seat at the table. Faris wasn't really thinking to stay long enough to sit down, but he pulls out a chair for himself.

“Just wondering 'cause you haven't come to the shop or wrote in the group chat for a while,” Rhys says then.

They pick another cig from their packet of Camels and light it up with the seasoned expertise of a chain-smoker. Faris feels it would be impolite to ask if he can have a fag of his own.

“And to be frank, you look like shit,” they add, and they blow a thread of smoke up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, I know.” Faris scratches the side of his head for no particular reason, other than the fact that his hand is close enough to begin with and he needs something to do with it. “I smashed my face into the pavement when I was walking back from Greggs and everything kind of escalated from there.”

“Oh yeah, Josh showed me the picture you sent him of your face,” Rhys cuts in. “That family reunion you went to apparently was really disastrous too.”

“Yeah, it was.” Faris keeps fingering his scalp. The scabs all over his chin are becoming more and more tempting to pick at, but he dare not. “At least this time I wasn't the one who ruined it for everyone.”

Rhys laughs, one of their gentle, tinkling laughs, and it still seems fake. Faris counts the moles and freckles on their face, there's five of them in total, which is mildly satisfying. Next, he stares at the blackboard hung up on the wall next to the kitchen table, a vintage menu that used to be in a café judged from the text at the top.

A grocery list and a flyer for the sleepover in two weeks are fixed to the left side with some of Rhys' collection of novelty magnets. Meanwhile, the right side is covered with polaroids, some from times Faris remembers where he's even in the photos and some older ones, all of them captioned in Rhys' curly Sharpie handwriting.

_Pride 2015, Pride 2014, Soho Drag Ball 2014, New Year's Eve 2013_ , plenty of photos of Rhys and Harry and Josh with their massive group of friends. Faris even lurks in the background of last year's pride photo, taken at one of the parties before the big weekend. _Brighton Beach 2011_ , that one's a picture of Rhys kissing their then-boyfriend on the promenade with the seafront behind them.

_Valentine's Day 2014_ , Faris is in that one, too. They'd all gone to a showing of _But I'm a Cheerleader_ at an independent theatre, Harry with the girl she was seeing at the time and Josh with a bird he'd met on the internet. Rhys had been in full drag that night, a sequinned red mod dress and their favourite black bob wig, and they and Faris had been the collective fifth wheel.

Another picture from last year is captioned _Josh's 24_ _th_ _Birthday_ with two sloppy hearts drawn left and right of it. Faris and Josh are sitting in a booth of the weird American-inspired diner Josh had insisted upon, and Josh's wearing one of the American Football helmets that were part of the decoration. For some reason he doesn't remember now, Faris is clutching a bouquet of roses. Josh's got an arm slung around his shoulders, and he's pretty sure Rhys had asked them to pose like that. Still, it's strange to look at now. Given the climate.

There's even the half of the photo booth strip of pictures that Faris doesn't have pinned to his own corkboard, from that time he and Josh went to Camden Lock last year. Josh is pulling a face with his teeth bared and his eyes covered by those stupid sunglasses in the top photo, while Faris only gives a blank-eyed stare, the particularly unfortunate resting face he's got. In the bottom picture, Josh's got his face smushed into the side of Faris' to kiss his cheek. The tiny black-and-white version of Faris is caught in the moment of an unflattering laugh, but he looks so much _better_ than Faris looks now, and much better than he had remembered himself looking.

Faris quickly looks away. He still doesn't know what to say.

“Nick finally laid me off last week.”

Rhys lets their fag sink down towards the tabletop. The smoke trickles from their mouth without a deliberate exhalation, at the same time that their face slowly collapses. Finally, they say, with the same emphatic tone that Faris remembers from Nick, “Oh, Faris.”

“Yeah.” Faris rearranges himself so he can clasp his hands together instead and use his knuckles as a rest for his head. “He more or less fired me for being mentally ill.”

Rhys drops the ash from their cigarette into one of those tiny espresso mugs. This one's got a picture of a bird on it. They ask, “Did he really say that?”

“Not word for word. But pretty much.” Faris fidgets side to side in his leather jacket. “He said he had to fire me for not making eye contact with the customers and for having a flattened affect.”

Immediately after he's said it, Faris wonders whether Rhys knows what the phrase _flattened affect_ means. Their building is much better insulated than his, and they keep the blinds down all day over the summer to basically turn it into an icebox. Still, Faris is too warm, or maybe the weight of the leather alone makes him feel like he's being suffocated.

“You look like you're a bit warm,” Rhys says, as if they'd read his thoughts. “Do you not want to take your jacket off?”

“I think I'm good, cheers.”

Taking his jacket off implies spending an extended amount of time here, and that's not something Faris intends to do. He'll just finish this conversation, ask Rhys if they're okay again, hug them goodbye and walk back home up the road. That's the plan. The conversation will turn to the uncomfortable topic of whether or not Faris would like to work at BedMates, and Faris will inevitably decline, but he hasn't thought any further than that about how it'll go.

It remains quiet while Rhys smokes their fag, and Faris isn't sure whether he should initiate the conversation. He wants to ensure they're really okay, as in _not in need of immediate psychiatric treatment_ okay. That's the main reason he came here. More than that, however, he wants to get out of here before the shop closes and Josh inevitably comes upstairs.

Finally, Rhys extinguishes the cigarette into their makeshift ashtray. They say, “I think I'll put the kettle on now.”

“No need to.” Faris stares at his knuckles in his immediate line of vision. One of them has a scab on it of which he can't remember when he hurt himself, and which he _absolutely dare not pick at_. “I wasn't going to stay that long.”

Rhys ignores what he just said, and Faris immediately wonders if perhaps it was _rude_. All things considered, maybe they just wanted to make themself a cuppa. They definitely deserve it, at least.

“Would you like some tea, too?” Rhys calls over from the kitchenette when the kettle is steaming. They've got a mug set out on the counter next to it, a red one with a paisley design, with the sugar bowl by its side. Faris knows them well enough to know there's milk in the mug already, enough to fill up the bottom half of an inch.

“I said I don't want to stay that long,” Faris insists. “No, cheers.”

“All right.”

Rhys pours the tea. When they come back to the dining table, the scent of it already wafts towards Faris from a three-foot distance. Something sickeningly sweet that's basically not even tea at all, cherry vanilla flavour. They've brought Digestives too, and Faris accepts when they offer one. The biscuit's crumbly in his mouth, essentially flavourless, but still it feels like the best thing he's eaten in weeks. Since that ice cream cake, to be precise, but Faris would rather not think back to that.

“Well, you know what I'm going to tell you now,” Rhys eventually says when they've got their own mouth half-full with biscuit. “The offer's still on the table.”

“Yeah,” Faris says back, not sure what else he could possibly say.

“Thirty-five hours a week, nine pounds an hour,” Rhys offers. “You'd mostly have to manage and package online orders or clean up around the shop and rearrange the displays. No contact with customers if you're not comfortable with that.”

Faris takes a deep breath. “I'm not sure if I can accept that.”

This month's rent is due tomorrow, and when he gets the redundancy pay from Nick, he'll be able to afford next month's, too.

“I've got two months now that I can afford my rent without a job since Nick was nice enough to keep me on the payroll for another month. I don't know yet what I'll do after that.”

Well, he really doesn't. Surprisingly, when he looks at Rhys, they don't appear to be waiting to jump on the opportunity to give Faris some unsolicited advice. They're not even touching their mug or the biscuits, just listening with their sexual educator expression on their face. Faris supposes this conversation is close enough to a safe sex talk for it to be appropriate.

“I might get myself declared unfit for work and apply for benefits so I can move into a council flat somewhere not too far away. Or maybe I'll just move back home. I've been feeling a lot worse lately.”

Well, he hasn't really thought that far until now, but he's already had the dread in the back of his head that moving into a council flat was his only real option. Moving back to Hull, not so much.

“You've been feeling worse because of your brain problems?” Rhys repeat-asks in an uncannily accurate approximation of the professional counsellor voice.

Maybe this should be the moment when Faris comes out and tells Rhys, _he's a Vampire_. They did ask, and they look like they're expecting an honest answer.

_Well, it turns out I was infected with CBHS when I hooked up with this bloke at the last guys-only Sleepover. I'm a Vampire now._

But maybe he shouldn't say that, given the climate. Besides, Rhys is a notorious chatterbox, so if Faris were to tell them now, Harry would know before tomorrow. Josh would know, too, and what's more is he would find out in the worst possible way.

“My intrusive thoughts and my general ADHD.” Faris takes another bite from his biscuit, and he adds, “I've got an appointment with my psychiatrist in October so she can adjust my Seroquel dosage and put me back on the Ritalin, but I won't be able to afford my rent by then, so…”

He's a Vampire. Not even counting the bits where he's gay and brown and mentally ill and _unfit for work_ , nobody wants to hire a dirty haemo. Not to mention the rations and the Vampire tax the Tories are introducing, but Faris can't very well just say that.

“Faris. Look.”

Rhys reaches out across the table to lay their hand on top of his. Their hands are so much smaller and skinnier, soft with the lotion they use. One of their fingernails has chipped clear varnish still stuck to it, and their skin is rosy pink. Faris cannot stand the contrast.

“If we can help you out in any way, like, even if you just want to work part time until you feel better… Twenty hours a week, fifteen pounds an hour? Please just tell us.”

Faris does the calculations in his head quickly, and it adds up to the same monthly pay he got working forty-five hour weeks at minimum wage. The offer is absolutely insane, and maybe he should… he can't.

“That's a really great offer,” he simply says. “But it's… I just don't think I've got the energy to deal with this stuff at the moment, so.”

He phrases it in a deliberately vague way, so it's unclear whether he means working in a sex shop or work in general by _this stuff_. Or Josh, for that matter.

Faris finishes eating his biscuit, finally, and stands up from the table.

“Look, Rhys, I really didn't want to stay that long…” he starts. “And also I feel bad 'cause I only came here to check up on if you're okay, and I ended up unloading all my problems onto you instead.”

“Oh, it's fine,” Rhys chirps. They go to stand up as well, move in so they're close enough they could go in for a hug if they wanted. “At least you took my mind off of things.”

Then the hug comes, just as tight as the first one. Rhys is so warm, even in their icebox flat. This time, Faris doesn't want to let go.

“Okay,” Faris says. “But are you _okay_ , though?”

Rhys shrugs. “Obviously I'm _not_ okay. I found a body this morning.”

They noticeably hesitate when they say the word _body_. The thought that creeps into Faris' head is maybe intrusive, but it's one he's been trying to push out over and over since the bodies started appearing. He'll blame that documentary he watched.

“What was it… What part of…”

Faris stops speaking as soon as it catches up with him that what he'd just said was _horribly insensitive_. Judged by Rhys' expression of disgust, it's a little too late for that, however.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have asked that.”

Rhys exhales through their nose. Their eyes flit down to the floor, their two pairs of feet, before they finally speak. “It was… it was a stump, alright?”

“A stump,” Faris repeats, just to make sure he didn't mishear it.

“Not a stump, a rump.” Rhys shakes their head.

“Oh,” Faris says, dumbfounded by the correction.

From a terrorist standpoint, it seems like a smart decision, the removal of all fingerprints and footprints, and no face, or maybe from a conspirator standpoint. From Faris' point of view, the mental image it conjures…

“Was there a lot of blood?”

“Of _course_ there was a lot of blood. The front of the house was splattered with it.”

Faris once again says, “Oh.”

“I don't want to think about it.”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine.” Rhys shakes their head again. Their eyes look moist, too watery.

–

When he finally leaves, Faris can't keep himself from creeping over to the shop's door again and peeping in through the window. Now that he’s really looked, there’s still blood staining the pavement and the brick beneath the display window, only the tiny bit that had seeped in and couldn’t be washed out. He almost feels light-headed at the sight now, and he doesn’t know if that’s knowing the context or whether it’s the same unease that crept into him the last time he had to see blood. Internalised haemophobia, perhaps, but that’s not funny no matter how he looks at it.

Inside the shop, Josh and Harry are sat behind the counter, both apparently fixated on something Josh’s pulled up on his laptop. Harry looks good, too, but when does she not, and Faris wonders how much of her whole exterior is an _act_ to cover things up. Well, her laugh at whatever Josh is showing her seems genuine, and besides, Faris also wonders what’s even on her mind at the moment.

Harry’s not a Vampire, Harry didn’t find a body this morning. Harry’s not… whatever Josh must be going through right now. Faris literally hasn’t spoken to Josh in over two weeks, and thinking about it concretely almost makes him feel guilty until he considers the alternative. The very thought of facing Josh and keeping up the façade clogs his throat like that proverbial brick, constricts his lungs and all the other soft bits in his ribcage, and the other possibility…

The other possibility is he comes right out with _it_ , and he very simply cannot do that. It, _Vampire Vampire Vampire Vampire Vampire_. Faris presses his finger onto the Vee Positivity sticker, right over the Humanity For Vees Society logo. Maybe he’s thinking about this too much, and Josh’s already gone back to messaging strange girls on Tinder for nudes.

Behind the glass, Josh turns his head to look up from the screen. Before Faris can avert his gaze, they’ve made eye contact, and Josh raises his two fingers in a V to point them to his eyes, the _I'm watching you_ gesture, not the Vampire teeth gesture. Faris loathes to think that was the first thing to come to his mind.

Still, just as soon, he whips his head away, and he speeds back up the street towards the bus stop as fast as his deteriorating body and self-respect will allow him. It's a simple fight-or-flight response, he knows that, and he's already chosen _flight_ , which is his only real option at the moment. Faris sprints along the high street, a strange gait brought on by long legs and driving anxiety that's at the same time trying to pace itself, because he can't just _run away_ from Josh, can he?

He can.

Normally, it's four-hundred steps from the bus stop to BedMates, but with his stumbling steps, that number drastically decreases. He's at one-hundred-and-seventy when normally he'd be at well past three-hundred, but whether that's his step or his brain tripping over the numbers again, he doesn't know that. The 56 bus pulls up to the stop when he's still thirty hurtles away, and before he can think about it, he picks up the pace as fast as he possibly can.

His mouth tastes like nasty rotted blood when he slams his oyster onto the reader and drops down onto a seat next to a shrivelled old man, more than it normally does, that is to say. One two three four five heartbeats match up with one two three four five heaving breaths. The geezer stares at him with poison in his eyes. Faris doesn't know if he _knows_ or if he's just a regular grumpy old man, if maybe, most possibly, he's just a racist. The water from his still-wet hair mingles with sweat, and the whole nasty soup flows down his nape, down his forehead, past his brows and into his eyes.

“Pardon?” he asks the geezer. “Have you got a tissue?”

There's no response, but in all fairness, this is still London, and more so, a weary, paranoid London.

He needs to _calm down_. Of course, he didn't think to bring his backpack with the Clonazepam in. Faris wipes his face and then his sweaty neck with the fabric of his t-shirt. The growing dread and shame makes him bluntly aware this is something he should potentially call his therapist about.

_Hello Sandra_ , he would say. _Yes, I'm just calling to tell you I'm a Vampire now, and now I haven't spoken to my best mate with benefits-slash-fake boyfriend in over two weeks because I'm scared of his reaction if he finds out. Also, I just ran away from him._

The very thought makes Faris shudder, and the shame would heat up his face if he wasn't already boiling up underneath his skin. Still, he reaches into his pocket for his phone, essentially a glorified brick in this state, and presses the button on the right shoulder.

He's not going to call Sandra, nor is he going to actually check his messages, but maybe one of those inane mobile games Josh made him download ages ago would calm him down. Maybe he should try Grindr again. Or FangBangers. Faris' phone slowly boots up, the white Apple logo appears behind the crack in the screen. A part of him is surprised that there's even any charge left on it, but before the _Swipe to Unlock_ screen appears, the bus comes to a halt, his stop, and Faris hurries to alight.

He only checks his notifications when he's actually back in his flat with his phone plugged in to charge. Three unread emails since he checked his inbox on his laptop yesterday, and approximately eight-hundred WhatsApp notifications, all from the group chat, no doubt. Faris ignores them in favour of tapping the regular messages icon, thirteen unread. He's duly aware there's a possibility all of them are Josh, but when the screen loads, Faris finds only eight texts from Josh, which he's definitely not going to read. Two are from Nick, sent before he laid Faris off, and the other three… Faris taps on the conversation with _Tom (DO NOT PICK UP)_.

_Jesus christ I only just received these_

_Sorry about that. Really hope you're okay though_

_I'm in the city for the next week, feel free to get in touch then_

Faris checks, the message was sent on the twenty-ninth. Wednesday. Today is still Sunday, obviously, four days later. He takes a deep breath and taps on the text entry field.

_its fine I had my phone turned off the whole time. When are you free?_


	10. sanguine

Tom agrees to meet Faris the next day, at the Red Room on Kingsland High Street. Faris knows it's risky, considering BedMates is literally next door, but he figured it would be only appropriate to meet at a Vee place, and Red Room was the only one he could think of.

He gets the bus to be ten minutes earlier than the time he'd arranged with Tom, three PM. From the outside, Red Room looks more or less like a regular coffee shop, if it weren't for the dark tinted windows and the black mesh veil that drapes down from the awning over the patio. Faris presses down on the heavy door handle, and the door swings inward much easier than he's used to with the withdrawal sapping his strength.

The inside of the café… well, it looks like a regular coffee shop from the inside, too, if an excessively pretentious one. The light from the lamps mounted to the walls is warm and yellow to give the room the appearance of a cave, or maybe a womb, even if only the wall behind the counter is _actually_ painted red. The air conditioning is turned up high, and for the first time in what must be ages, Faris _doesn't_ feel like he's burning up. He joins the queue and orders a small glass of strawberry juice, the cheapest drink on the menu. Everything here is so expensive.

“Have you got your card?” the barista asks him. She's a Black girl with deep purple braids and a rich skin tone, and when Faris inhales the venom that clings to her underneath her perfume and the smell of coffee grounds, he finds it instinctively comforting before anything else.

“You mean like a rewards card?” he asks back.

“No, no, your Blood Trust registration card?”

 _Oh_.

“You get a discount, half-off, if you're registered. Government-enforced policy, sorry about that,” she clarifies, then. Her tone is maybe too apologetic.

Maybe Faris' facial expression when the realisation clicked was a bit too obvious.

“I don't have a registration card. I think I'll just have a normal strawberry juice.”

“This is a Vee-oriented café,” the barista says in an overly diplomatic retail worker voice.

Faris cannot tell if she's hiding hostility behind it or not. He furrows his brow while trying to formulate a reply. Surely if he told her by smell she should be able to sniff him out, too, _right_?

“I'm meeting up with a friend here,” he finally says. “How much for a regular… for the juice without blood in?”

“It'll be two quid, please.” Which is still much too expensive for a glass of juice, but not enough to bankrupt him by any measure.

Little groups of customers are gathered on the sofas and armchairs in the shop, which is about as crowded as the average Starbucks would be on a summer day like this. In all fairness, if it weren't for the smell of Vampire and copper pennies penetrating the air, it would be completely indistinguishable from any regular expensive chain coffee shop. Red Room is a chain, Faris is pretty sure, there's another one in Camden Town that he walked past before and one near Leicester Square, plus at least one in every major city in the UK. The nearest one to Hull is in Leeds city centre, he thinks.

He relaxes once he sees the _More Seating Available Upstairs_ sign, and then more so when a small table that's within view of the entrance becomes available just as he walks past. Faris sits down on the upholstered bench, soft black leather that's somehow still cold when someone just stood up from it. His strawberry juice is served like a fancy cocktail, crushed ice piled up in the glass, and there's even a leaf of something swimming atop as a garnish. He takes a sip from the straw and contents himself with knowing that he got here early, even if he can't shake the feeling that _maybe_ , Tom came here even earlier, and Faris only has a shaky memory of what he even looks like.

Well, he's got stark-white Vampire skin, obviously, and Faris remembers that he has a really pretty cock, gently curved with a pink head. Maybe he should put more effort into remembering his hookups just for situations like this.

The door opens with a soft chime that rings over the chatter and soft acoustic coffee house music, and Faris watches the next customers walk in. Two girls in summer dresses, one pale with yellow-blonde hair, the other Asian, her skin a dusky sandy tone like his own but much more saturated. Obviously neither of them are Tom.

Faris picks his phone up from the table to look at the iMessage conversation with Tom again, and surely, it's exactly where it's supposed to be. He disables the airplane mode, waits for it to connect, and like clockwork, a new text from Tom pops up.

_Sorry I'm running late. Gonna be there at 10 past_

The time now is 2.57 PM.

Faris closes out of his messages, and he opens one of the apps he'd downloaded, a game that's all about bouncing colourful shapes off each other. It's immensely relaxing.

The door chime sounds again, and Faris reflexively closes out of his game to look up. The customer who walks in is a man his age, ghostly pale even by Vampire standards. He removes his bug-eyed sunglasses first thing, and instead of walking up to the counter he turns to approach the little round table Faris is sat at.

Faris' phone says it's eight minutes past three. It's Tom, obviously.

Tom pulls back the empty chair and extends his hand instead of actually sitting down.

“Hello, Faris,” he says.

Faris says, “Hello,” and goes in for the handshake. Tom's hand is warm, not cold as his marble-white skin would have lead Faris to think. It's weirdly formal.

Tom sits down. “I'm Tom,” he says.

“I know.”

Faris looks down at the tabletop, dark wood stained with the circular remnants of people's drinks. He sips his juice through the straw.

“You're a bit socially awkward, aren't you?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Faris' eyes flit up towards Tom's face, but just as soon, he gazes out towards the tinted window again, well aware it blocks the view of anything he could reasonably be looking at. Tom's almost uncomfortably handsome, high cheekbones and big hazel eyes and a hooked nose. Faris has absolutely no estimate of how old he could be.

“I'm working on it.” Blatant lie. Still, Faris should probably at least fake eye contact if he's talking to someone he's only met once before. He focusses on Tom's disgustingly sculpted nose.

“What's that you've got in your glass?”

Tom's wearing a shirt that's sort of purplish, and it only serves to make him look even more pale and unreal. His hair's slick and dark like an old-timey movie star's, and despite all the _quirks_ in his face, his thick brows and too-big forehead and large eyes, he looks like a real person and not like a strange cartoon character. He's even got the bit of handsome stubble.

Faris feels at once somewhat accomplished that months ago, there must have been something about him that made this man want to sleep with him, and at the same time, terrifyingly inadequate. He's aware that neither of those are appropriate feelings to have, but the former is probably more inappropriate than the latter.

“It's strawberry juice,” Faris says. “It's virgin.” Immediately after he's added that, he wonders if _virgin_ is the right terminology for this.

“Right.” Tom gives him a warm and irritatingly gleaming smile. His teeth are _incredibly_ straight, his fangs filed off. “What do you say I get us some drinks and a snack before we talk?”

It's probably not meant to be a question, because Tom nods and doesn't wait for Faris to nod back before he stands up.

What's Faris meant to do but watch him turn around and walk over to the barista. Tom converses with her after he's given up his order and makes it look _so natural_ , and Faris already feels that asking to meet up was a mistake. This is exactly what the internet was made for, it's for when he hooks up with a stranger and contracts a rare illness that's just one more bullet point on the list of reasons why he's a second-class citizen. There's probably a Wikihow page on this exact subject, _How to Cope with a Congenital Bloodbourne Haemovore Syndrome Diagnosis_. Faris should've just quietly accepted that Tom's a real person who was correct about saying that he accidentally infected him through mouth-to-mouth contact and saliva and microscopic tears or whatever, and moved on.

Suddenly, Red Room seems simultaneously much too claustrophobic and too spacious. Tom stands off to the side while his order is being prepared instead of coming back to the table, and Faris isn't sure if he should be grateful for that or not. He reaches for his phone and goes back to that game he was playing for a bit. When was the last time he had a steak bake? There's a Greggs somewhere around here, he's pretty sure. There's a Greggs pretty much everywhere in London. Maybe he should just go and ditch the date, as far as this can be considered a date anyway.

Tom comes back before that can happen. He's carrying a small wooden tray with two glasses and a plate on, and Faris quickly puts his phone down.

“There you go. Help yourself.”

There's a sandwich cut in two neat halves on the plate, one glass that looks precisely like his strawberry juice, but with a deeper tint near the bottom, and one with a black liquid that could be coke in it. Faris reaches for the juice and places it delicately next to his own glass.

“Thank you.”

“It's not a problem.” Tom picks up the black drink and sips it through the straw. It doesn’t look to be carbonated. “How do you know Rhys?”

Faris briefly considers wondering how Tom knew that he knows Rhys, but then decides to wonder how _Tom_ knows them, instead.

“Kind of how everyone knows Rhys,” he simply says. “My friend took me clubbing and he introduced me to them and Harry.”

Maybe he shouldn't refer to Josh as _my friend_ anymore, but that's something to worry about later.

Tom smiles. “That's funny you should say that.”

Faris doesn't know what he means by that.

“I actually met them last year during Pride, 'cause we were both giving speeches on the same day.”

“Oh, that's cool.” Small talk. “So you're like… an activist?”

“I do what I can.” Tom smiles another excruciatingly handsome smile. “I mean, I volunteer a lot, and I do a lot of online stuff to raise awareness, so they asked me be on a panel about Vampires and the LGBT community.”

Once again, Faris feels terribly inadequate.

“Actually the reason I was in London when we met was 'cause I came down to watch the election and attend some protests, and Rhys invited me to come check out Sleepover while I was already there.”

“Where do you actually live?”

Well, Tom doesn't speak with a noticeable accent. “I'm from Scotland.” As if he'd immediately realised that he doesn't _sound_ very Scottish, he adds, “My parents moved there when I was eight.”

“Scotland sounds lovely. I've never been,” Faris says. “I don't go to protests as much as I'd like to.”

Tom says, “I actually spoke at the big one on the Saturday right after the election.”

“I didn't go to that one.” Faris doesn't know what kind of answer Tom was expecting. “Didn't have the energy.”

He sips from one of the juice glasses, the one that's already half-empty. Suddenly, the strawberry juice tastes much too saccharine and artificial. Faris paid two whole pounds for this.

“I only went to the really big one in June,” he says, then. “You know, the one when…”

Tom definitely knows when he means, so he doesn't feel the need to finish the sentence.

“Yeah, that was pretty bad,” Tom diplomatically says. It's very clearly hypobolic, or however else the opposite of exaggeration would be called. “I was home for that weekend so I didn't find out about it until when I came back down for Pride, and I was completely shocked.”

“Yeah.” Faris doesn't know what to say, or how to say it. “I was there for most of it… like, I saw when he bit the copper. But we left after that.”

“You came there with Rhys, did you not?”

“Yeah.”

He's not sure where this conversation is going, but apparently, Tom isn't either. At least that makes Faris feel slightly less horrid while they sit there in silence and sip their drinks for a few seconds.

“Feel free to have a bite, by the way.”

Tom's said that before. Maybe this time, Faris should take him up on the offer, since it's, technically speaking, free food.

“Cheers.”

He grasps one half of the sandwich to pull it open and inspect it, grilled chicken on a bed of leafy greens, garnished with halved cherry tomatoes and grated parmesan cheese and drizzled with what looks like balsamic vinegar. The sting of copper pennies is attached to it, even more so than to the entire coffee shop itself, and Faris sceptically reaches in and begins to remove the tomatoes from his half.

“The good stuff's in the sauce,” Tom points out, and he winks.

Might as well go ahead and bite the apple – well, sandwich in this case. Faris is careful when he lifts it off the plate, lest it might fall apart in his hands, or, worse, end up being a mess to eat. He takes a deep whiff of the blood in the sauce, and even if there's no primal instincts awakening like there had been during that one time, it still raises goose pimples all over his arms. Before he can think about it, Faris stretches his neck forward and takes a bite.

If nothing else, it's a damn good sandwich. His jaw works through the texture of the whole-grain bread, the greens and the tender chicken, and finally, he gets a taste of that sweet, metallic sauce coating his tongue. If it wouldn't be embarrassing, he'd sigh in content.

On second thought, fuck that.

Faris moans through his mouthful before he swallows. A heady feeling surrounds him, and he thinks back to his very first time getting drunk, or his first time taking ecstasy with Rhys and Josh at Synthetic Ladyland. A little bit, it's like that, but better, a more subdued version that rings much deeper to the bone. Faris takes a second bite.

Tom laughs at him.

“What's so funny?” Faris asks through the food in his mouth, momentarily struck by a loss of manners.

“I'm really sorry, but… your face.” Tom handsomely shakes his head. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, apparently.

“What's about my face?”

“Nothing. It's beautiful.” Tom keeps smiling. “I never thought I'd ever get to see that first-hand, the _first time having blood_ expression.”

Faris supposes he may as well laugh along after he's swallowed. “I admit it is pretty overwhelming.”

His head swims, just a little bit. He goes to take another bite, but before that, he wipes up some of the sauce that dripped down and sucks it from his finger. It's tangy, a bit reminiscent of barbecue sauce but with the sweetness of blood behind it.

“It's good,” Faris quickly explains as soon as he realises Tom is still watching him.

Tom _won't stop_ smiling at him. Finally, he asks, “So, why did you ask me to come meet you?”

“I don't know.” Faris keeps the sandwich firmly grasped in both his hands, even if it's not big enough for that to be justified. “I guess I just wanted to talk to someone, like… I know that sounds stupid, but you're the only Vampire I actually know, so.”

Immediately after he's said it, he's not sure what the _I know that sounds stupid_ part was meant to refer to, but in all fairness, most of the things he's said today have been pretty stupid. On second thought, he knows Cat, but that's just that – her fake online name which she uses to talk to potential submissives on FetLife, or whatever kinky people do on the internet. Faris doesn't think about that all too often.

“I'm mainly not sure what I'm meant to do after I finish turning.”

“You've got options,” Tom says.

He delicately picks up the other half of the sandwich to take a bite, which somehow manages to still look dignified on him. Faris notes that he doesn't pick out the tomatoes.

“I've googled it… twice.”

Well, he did, a couple days after he first forayed onto the CBHS page on the National Health website.

“I already downloaded the Blood Trust application form, so I'm assuming that's what I'll do next, but…”

Faris doesn't know how to finish that sentence. _But I don't really want to do that. But I don't actually want to receive two shots of blood from the government once a week and be too poor to buy more. But I don't want to live off benefits and still have to pay the fucking Vampire tax._

Fittingly enough, Tom clears his throat just then. Whether he'd intended to interrupt, Faris isn't sure, but he's glad to have the conversation taken away from him.

“Look,” he says, “I shouldn't be telling you this in public, but…”

Faris leans in. Tom's eyes flit left and right for a short second, as if that wasn't enough to reassure him. Perhaps rightfully so, though.

“You don't have to tell me _in public_. My flat's ten minutes away from here.”

Maybe that sounded like he was coming on to Tom again, because he can't place the expression on his face for the next split second.

“Right,” Tom says, then. “So, what do you do for work?”

–

Faris walks home by himself later that day. The air's cooled down enough to not be totally unbearable, the setting sun veiled by clouds, and for the first time in what must be months, the neighbourhood around his flat doesn't stink of rotting garbage. He'd drank the strawberry juice Tom bought him before he left, and after he finished his sandwich, and it's left him with a radiating energy in his very bones like he hasn't felt since he first started the antidepressants and they kicked in. Faris wouldn't call it mania, maybe euphoria is the better term, but he's not really sure about that.

When he unlocks the door to his flat, James isn't home, presumably out drinking with his obnoxious friends at some pub, so the very first thing Faris does is pull off his t-shirt and chuck it to the floor. His boots follow, his socks, and then, his trousers.  An itch sits under his skin once again, different from the fire under his veins but rather a nervous, aroused sort of gooseflesh. For a second, he considers shedding his pants, too, but… Not yet.

Faris grills himself a cheese on toast, simple to make but somewhat more satisfying than the usual combination of crisps and cold cuts, and drenches it in barbecue sauce. He eats in bed, fully nude, and makes a mess on his chest and the sheets, and his fingers, too, but he only sucks them clean. That sandwich Tom had bought for him was way better, but he still wolfs it down. He's so hungry.

Tom's a great guy. He does so much. Tom spends his week that he's down here volunteering at a Vampire sanctuary in Croydon, and he helped found the AlleVee8 helpline when he was at university in Edinburgh. He's only twenty-eight. He has a _really_ nice mouth.

And nice hands.

And the prettiest cock Faris has ever seen in his life. He presses his tongue up into the roof of his mouth thinking about that. His bed is so soft, so much softer than the single in the small bedroom at the flat where he had sex with Tom. The door was open the whole time they were fucking and he made eye contact across the hallway with some goth twink whose dick Josh was sucking for half of it. Tom's… a great fucker. And a great kisser. Faris can't remember whether he was clean-shaven or not that day, but he would've let Tom give him rug burn on his neck. Beard burn.

Faris regrets not trying to pull Tom today. But they said they were meeting up for cocktails at this Vampire bar on Friday, so maybe then again. Faris hasn't had a cock up his arse since May the sixteenth. All-guys Sleepover. He remembers that. When did he get hard? He grabs his cock with dirty fingers, wipes his hand on the sheets, and tries again. He doesn't usually wank. He's never bought a sex toy in his life, even though he's pretty sure Rhys would even give him a nice discount.

One time they got a shipment of those egg things and the one they wanted to use as a demo model had a small manufacturing error. He probably still has it now. It's in his bedside drawer, underneath the condoms. He's got so many condoms and no one to use them with. The egg's a bit dusty by now, the seam on the silicone still wonky, but it should work fine. Faris pokes the ridges on the inside with his finger before he slups it on over his dick. Slup. That's not a word, but it should be, that's the approximate sound it _should_ make when he sticks his dick in something.

He needs lube. The eggs are supposed to come with lube, but Rhys didn't give him that. Or he used it up months ago, he doesn't remember. The dry silicone chafes on his cock when he strokes it up and down. He's not sure if it's even made out of silicone. This sucks. Why the hell doesn't he have any lube?

Faris hasn't even had sex, period, with anyone since Vee Positive Wednesdays. Last month. At this point, he'd probably prefer his nan's dried-up fanny to this sad excuse for masturbation. Only maybe. He chucks the egg and off it goes into some dark corner of his room. When it bounces off something, it makes a noise. Maybe he should flick on the bedside light. Faris spits into his hand and uses the slick one to grope for the switch and the dry one to grasp his cock. Bad mistake. He spits again, into the right hand this time. It somewhat reminds him of getting his first shitty handy on his bed in halls, but it's much, much better than that dry egg. In the yellow light, his cock looks really nice. He's got a nice cock, everyone who's seen it told him the same. Where's his phone?

Faris opens the camera and looks at it through the screen. Too dark for it to properly show up in a dick pic, and he's not going to turn on the flash. Cocks do not look good with the flash on. He properly unlocks his phone, might find some porn to make it more entertaining. What kind of porn does he even like? He doesn't watch porn. _Vampire porn_? That's a Google search term, at least.

Faris clicks the first result and gets a site with multiple videos, _Horny V Girl Loves Cock More Than She Loves Blood_ , _Slutty Vee Teen Gets Her Weekly Dose Of CUM_ , _PALEST Vampire Chick Begs For A Big Cock_. He's kind of afraid to read the rest of the results. New search term. Maybe some ethical porn like Rhys sells on DVD in the shop. Indie porn. Queer porn. It all costs money when he searches, so he closes out of the browser and opens the app store.

 _Fangbangers_. Faris hates the name of that app but he's already downloading it. _FangBangers is a hookup and dating app dedicated to Vees and the people who love them – and as anonymous as YOU want it to be._ That's what the little description text reads. The app installs quickly, and Faris opens it. He types in his email and a password, and he quickly fills out his profile, one-handed.

Name, Safari. Best to not put his actual name on it. What do people normally write? Age, 22. 6'5”. 160lbs, no idea whether that's correct or not. It _sounds_ correct, at least. Asian, they don't have an Arab option. Gender, male. They've got four options, male, female, M2F trans and F2M trans. Faris wants to laugh at that. Bisexual, I am a… There's three options for that, _Vampire_ , _Fang Banger_ , and _Undisclosed_. He hesitates before he ticks _Vampire_. Looking for… Both. Here for… Casual sex.

Faris – Safari – goes to upload his profile picture. He scrolls way back in his camera roll to some nudes he sent to Josh last year when he went home to Hull, and picks out the one where his head isn't visible. Maybe a little too much belly fat from Christmas dinner in the preview, but his cock's there. Nice and hard and big. That's what matters. Cock. Do people use full nudes for their profile picture on FangBangers? It doesn't say anything about that on the upload page. It _is_ a hookup app. Faris uploads the photo and doesn't bother with a bio.

The app takes him to the screen of nearby users, much like the Grindr screen. Lots of shirtless blokes and pale white girls in low-cut little black dresses. Faris scrolls down a little ways. He forgot _how fucking many_ Vampires there are in East London. Not all of these people are even Vampires. Shirtless bloke after shirtless bloke. Too many of them have six-packs and jacked muscles. None of them have their dicks out. Only one of the girls he's scrolled past is in a bra.

He stops at a profile with an underwear picture, one of the Vee girls who work at Red Room. Not the girl with the braids, the other one. Josh's weed dealer. It's a pure tit shot, but Faris recognises her by the floral tattoo on her arm, and she's got another one in the space under her tits, the reverse cleavage. He spits in his hand, time to lube up again.

Her hands are covering her nipples, holding her tits in place, she's got big tits. Black translucent lace knickers. She's a bigger girl with a soft belly and thick thighs where she's kneeling, Faris likes that, he taps her profile. Apparently her name is Kiki, she's thirty-one and straight. He hasn't had sex with a straight girl in almost four years, only bi girls from Sleepovers. Even that girl he dated for two months last year was bi. Here for casual sex… _Barista by day, hoe by night. I love a man with a strong jawline so I have a sturdy place to sit. Don't let the collar fool you_ , plus that one winking tongue-out emoji. Score.

Apparently she's got more pictures, that's apparently something the app lets you do, and Faris thumbs through them. She's dressed in the second one, but her cleavage is still very, very deep and she's wearing a big heavy collar. Her face is in this one, she's got that pin-up girl hairdo with the short fringe, purple lipstick, winged eyeliner. Most of the rest of her pictures are about the same, she wears a lot of black, kind of a goth look, and in one she's even wearing a Siouxsie t-shirt.

Is he supposed to swipe left or right? Or just message her? Does he want to? The clock says ten PM, Red Room is still open, maybe he could invite her over after her shift ends, if she's working now, the little distance tracker thing approximately matches up. She's online right now, maybe he can stuff his hard cock in his waistband and get the bus and shag her wherever she is, even if it's in a coffee shop toilet, she seems like that kind of girl. Adventurous.

Her very last picture is her in the same knickers but from behind, her round arse with her feet in black heels. Her tits hang down low with only her arms to hide her nipples, they're so much bigger from that angle. Faris wonders, if he turned the brightness up, if he could zoom in closer, maybe he could see more through the flimsy fabric.

His phone buzzes with a new message. The little notification thing in the top right corner of the app pops up, and the preview shows it's from her. Does this app show when he looks at someone's profile or did he do something? Faris doesn't know. He clicks on it.

 _Hey_ , with that same tongue-out emoji again, _Didn't I see you at the shop earlier today?_

_Sorry?_

_Sorry that must have sounded really weird_ , and the crying-laughing emoji. _Just thought I'd recognised you from the tall lanky body type and skin tone?_

_oh yeah that was me haha_

Faris hates hookup apps. He likes her tits, but he can't just write that. If he derails this normal conversation with saying he'd like to see how his jawline measures up, that's creepy, a normal conversation between two naked faceless strangers, but still.

_to be fair I recognised you because u sell weed to my friend_

_Sorry that also sounded weird_

She sends the same emoji again.

He hates how impossible it is to _talk_ on those things, everything has another meaning and is much more complicated than it should be, and there's so many _emojis_. It all boils down to whether or not she wants to fuck, in the end, and Faris thinks she does, if she didn't want to fuck him she wouldn't have clicked his profile and send the message. She'd probably be good at it, if she likes riding face she probably likes riding dick, too. He could bury his face in her tits and suck her nipples while she bounces on him, she seems like the type who gets her nipples pierced, big nipples with squeezable points like how all big tits have them. The flesh around her pussy would be really soft the way Josh's is underneath the fur he's growing around his slit, but she's probably shaved smooth, too.

_I like your profile picture. Bit forward but if you've got the goods by all means…_

Thank you? Should he say that? She did just tell him he's got a nice cock. A good cock. His actual cock's finally getting leaky at the tip.

_some of your pics are bit forward too in all fairness_

_i like it though_

_Yeah I've done some nude shoots and stuff before. Still don't think I'd put up a more revealing picture of my vag than what I have though_ , and she adds the peach emoji.

Why a peach?

Faris exits out of the conversation and goes back to that last picture in her profile. If he turns the brightness up enough to blind he can see the dip of her pussy where the lace clings to her. She must have been turned on during that shoot, probably, maybe even had sex right after, with her boyfriend or a hookup or whoever took the photos.

Just push those knickers to one side and slide right in, Faris wants to take her from behind after she rides him, after he makes her come by rubbing her clit. It's pink and cute, probably, her whole pussy must be, she'd be tight and hot and wet. Faris doesn't know what her voice sounds like, but he hopes she's loud. Her tits would jiggle from his thrusts unless he reaches around and squeezes them tight, and after he comes on them, she can sit on his face until he gets hard again.

Faris should send her a message. If she's still working or just if she wants to show him privately, her vag, if she's going to call it that, or at least a picture of her bare tits so they're on equal footing. He swipes back to her main profile picture, the space between her thighs is just right so he can fit between and fuck her like that. She'd probably have a strap-on, too, Faris could fuck her while she reaches around and fucks him with a dildo, not that he's ever done that before. She'd probably like it, too, or he could do her missionary and hold her legs up and spread wide to really pound her, he could fuck her standing up while she wears those heels.

New message from Kiki: _You still there?_

He could lick her out until she cries and then fuck her until she squirts. Do a lot of girls do that? Faris has never actually seen a girl squirt, but she probably could, and he could pull her hair and slap her ass, just a little to make it jiggle more when he fucks her.

Yes, he's still here.

What would she do if she was here with him? If she was here they'd be fucking, and James isn't here so they could be loud, Faris could have her hold the headboard to slam it into place. He could come in her cleavage or in her mouth, or on her pussy, he'll lick it off and she'll like that, all the kinky girls love a guy who eats his own jizz, and she'd sit on his face again.  He wouldn't be able to breathe but she'd pull his hair and rock onto his mouth, and he'd love it, he'd probably come just like that, just wanking himself off while she rides him. That's all he really needs, just a girl's pussy on his face, or maybe he could lick her arsehole too, would she like anal? If she's showing her arse on her profile she probably would, she'd be so hot and tight, he'd go slow and then faster as he fucks her, let her warm up to it.

The last time he fucked a girl up the arse was at a Sleepover too long ago, he can't even remember what she looked like. Josh was snogging her the whole time while her boyfriend was fingering him, but she loved it, Faris gets the feeling most girls do. It feels good if you do it right, give her a reach-around, slide his fingers in her pussy and rub her clit while he fucks her deep. He could probably feel his own cock through that partition wall, although he hasn't tried that yet, but she'd definitely be loud, all girls are during anal, his cock is so wet now, wet and hot, he could come on her arse.

Since when did his hands get this soft? His bed's so soft, too, he shouldn't have bothered with a wank and simply humped the sheets, but it's too late now, too late for that. His room's too warm, although it'd only be even warmer if he was actually fucking that girl, just pile her clothes on the floor and go for it, he'd fuck her so deeply with every thrust that she couldn't walk tomorrow. Just watch his cock go in and out of her until it's covered in thick frothy pussy juice, and she's probably on the pill, he'd be able to make her even messier, just come inside her pussy…

Finally, finally, Faris comes in his hand and it spills all over his knuckles.

–

Faris wakes up well past his alarm with his sheets and belly crusty with jizz and stained with smears of barbecue sauce. There's a plate of crumbs next to him by the headboard and an egg masturbator on the carpet in front of his closet. He's got no idea where his phone is, or what time it actually is, for that matter. The blinds are drawn, but light creeps inside in horizontal stripes and paints the wall above his head, so it's presumably day. He twists around, taking the duvet with him, and… there's a thud that suspiciously sounds like a phone dropping to the floor. There it is.

Faris stretches out his arm and picks it up from the carpet. Most of the battery is drained since he didn't charge it overnight, but it's a little before noon. He'd be more concerned about that if he wasn't unemployed and had actual friends to make plans with. There's some notifications on the lock screen, a few from Facebook, a friend request from a name he doesn't recognise, and one from WhatsApp to let him know he's missed over a hundred new messages in the group chat. Maybe he should really take the time to mute that chat. The most recent notification is from FangBangers, which already makes his stomach turn.

 _Someone's popular! You've got (2) new messages, Safari_ , followed by two fire emojis. He can't tell if whoever programmed the app intentionally made it sound sarcastic.

Faris hooks his phone up to the charger before he swipes that notification and puts in his pass code, and it takes him to his FangBanger inbox. One of the new messages is just the last one from that weed dealer barista girl that he never opened. He's not sure whether or not to be grateful that he didn't deliriously sext any more girls last night. His memory's fuzzy after a certain point, but he's reasonably sure he must have gotten himself off more than once. Probably best if he just deletes his browser history without looking. At least he didn't download Grindr again.

He swipes to the left to delete his messaging history with the barista, before he taps on the second message. The sender's name is listed as, very simply, _Dom Top_. From the profile photo alone it's obvious who it is, though, even if Tom's head isn't in the frame of the mirror selfie he's uploaded. He's fully dressed in the picture, in a dress shirt and pea coat and fancy shoes, in what looks like a posh hotel room.

Faris taps to see the rest of his profile. Twenty-eight years old, bisexual, here for friends. Faris isn't sure anyone who selects that option actually _means_ it, especially not if their display name blatantly displays how they like it in bed. When he scrolls through the rest of the pictures, none of them have Tom's face in them, either, but he's wearing clothes in every one. His bio reads, _Vamp 4 Vamp only. Undisclosed and profiles with no pics get blocked. Don't expect a reply if your only photo is a shirtless torso. Polyamorous. Traveller._ It's pretty obvious he's not actually there to make friends, and also a bit hypocritical considering _all_ of Tom's photos are just fully-dressed torsos.

Maybe Faris should actually read that message, so he hits the back button.

_Nice profile pic. Didn't think you'd be the type to be so forward._

That's the second time someone's described his dick pic avatar as _forward_ , and he begins to wonder whether or not that girl's message from last night was a backhanded compliment. Maybe he should change his profile photo to a normal picture, a nice one that's appropriate for Tinder, but on the other hand, it's more likely he'll just delete the app within three days.

_mate I have no idea what my brain was up to last night_

He's not sure if it's appropriate for him to call Tom _mate_. Just typing out the word in itself feels weird, like it's a part of his vocabulary that was never meant to enter the written medium. He doesn't have the headache or dreary feeling or general nausea that he remembers comes with being hungover, but the drowsy regret of _whatever he did last night_ is still very much present and makes the comparison rather apt. Maybe the sensation of coming down from an episode is _more_ apt, but Faris isn't going to think about it in those terms.

_Yeah, I probably should have told you about that._

_What??_

Faris doesn't truly have the energy to be outraged by that vague statement as the two question marks imply. He's so _hungry_.

He's not sure when the last time he was genuinely hungry and not simply suffering from some kind of symptoms was. After he pulls on clean pants, a shirt that doesn't smell disgusting, and a pair of trackie bottoms, since he's probably not going to leave the house today, he ventures into the kitchen, phone remaining on the bedside. His pile of clothes has stayed by the entrance door, not that he would've expected James to remove it. Faris would rather never find out what he must've thought if he came across it, if he even came home at all. He'll clean it up later on.

The fridge is depressingly empty when he opens it, only half a pot of houmous on the top shelf and three things of cold cuts. The last of the cheese, he'd used up last night to make that stupid cheese on toast. Other than the last two slices of bread, the only things in his half of the cabinets are two cans of baked beans, a handful of Pot Noodles, and one can of beef ravioli that he'd bought last year. He might as well just order a kebab in, but then, he could get about four Steak Bakes for that money. Or maybe even some actual food.

_I have to run to the grocery shop really quick. can we have a normal conversation not on a hookup app when i get back?_

There'd been no reply from Tom in the five minutes it took him to walk across the flat and verify there's nothing edible in the fridge. Still, one comes in now.

_I'm at work but feel free to ring me._

–

Faris took a shower after he put his phone down and then walked to Sainsbury's and bought some halfway-edible food. Right now, he's eating a microwave curry on the sofa, phone set to speaker on the arm of it. While the chicken is too chewy and the rice too dry, it's probably the most dignified meal he's bought for himself in ages.

“You still haven't explained what you actually meant by what you said,” he says in the phone's direction between two bites.

“Yeah, it's… They don't write about it on any of the websites, 'cause it's a very atypical reaction.” Tom's voice is so smooth and even, he'd be a great newsreader. Faris can't imagine him being truly angry at anything, or expressing any emotion in general, but not in a flattened-affect sense. “Have you started teething?”

“What?”

Faris knows exactly what he means. He's read the websites, obviously, and the tell-tale pain behind his canines set in sometime last week, but between depression and knowing the reason for the ache, he hadn't really bothered with thinking about it. Still, the meat in his curry is a _little_ too chewy when he bites down on it.

“Did either of your canine teeth fall out yet?” Tom asks again.

With his mouth full, Faris shakes his head. He makes a noise that hopefully indicates _no_ just as soon, since obviously, Tom can't see him.

“Right. See, you remember what I said to you about your face the first time you tasted blood?”

“Vaguely.”

Faris is _awful_ at remembering anything anyone might have said to him at any point. He stirs the curry sauce deeper into the rice with his spoon, but the noise the metal makes against the ceramic of the plate is absolutely dreadful.

“That's actually 'cause it releases some hormones in your brain. That's the normal part.”

Faris knows that. He's been on the websites. “I know that,” he says.

“Obviously the reaction's going to be a bit more visceral if you're turned Vee, not born,” Tom explains on. “The facial expression, obviously, and it's like… it's even more intense if your body and brain is still adjusting to the turning, like, before your teeth come in.”

“So, Vampire puberty,” Faris says.

“Exactly. It gets really weird, apparently, 'cause all brains are different, and not all of them respond to blood the same way, and you had a lot of it.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure it gave me a full-on manic episode.” If it sounds bitter, he's not intending it to.

The only time he'd been in a manic state before was when he was still getting used to the meds, and he's only got a vague memory of that. Apparently, his mum had to forcibly take him back to the psychiatric ward at midnight, and they adjusted his dosages after that, but Faris would rather not think about that too deeply.

“In the juice and half the sandwich together was more blood than what you'd currently get as your weekly ration,” Tom continues. “And obviously it's bound to affect you more if your whole neurological system is screwed up to begin with, you know?”

“You mean my brain problems,” Faris says.

“Pretty much,” Tom says. “It's probably not going to happen again. Look, I need to go back to work, but you can ring me again if you've got any questions, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Still on for cocktails?”

“Sure.”

They say goodbye, and Tom hangs up. Well.

Faris reaches out for his phone and wipes it on the fabric of his shirt before he stuffs it in his pocket. He hates that feeling he gets after phone calls, conversations in general, a lack of fulfilment that's at the same time a vague shame of knowing it _could_ have gone differently. If he'd said more, or if he had any interpersonal skills to begin with, or… Well, if his brain worked correctly he probably would have those people skills, but then, he also wouldn't have had to have that conversation in the first place. The very thought makes his head ache.

With the room quiet now that the conversation is over, Faris reaches for his laptop where he'd left it leaning by the coffee table's leg. He boots it up and signs into James' Netflix account, and he picks yet another documentary from his recommendations. At least James isn't home so he doesn't feel the need to bother with headphones. This particular one is a David Attenborough film about the ocean, something nice and removed as far from everything as possible. That stingray in the cover art doesn't have to worry about being a Vampire or interacting with other stingrays or whatever he wanked over in a state of delirium. Faris puts the video on full screen, and he goes back to his curry.

The rice has already cooled down so much when he shovels a spoonful into his mouth, somehow still cardboardy even with the sauce drenching it. Compared to that blood sauce on the sandwich last night, it’s horrifically bland. They do sell ready-made meals with blood in them, in the same section as the gluten-free and vegan stuff, but Faris wasn't ready to shell out fifteen pounds for a microwave lasagne. He's not even feeling true _hunger_ anymore, merely the empty yearning for food that comes with boredom and depression.

Maybe the fact that his thirst for blood has been quenched means any other cravings have been muddled, reduced to background noise, but just as soon as Faris has thought that he realises how much he doesn't want to think it. _Thirst for blood_ , such a lurid phrase, the very thought of _thirsting_ for it makes him feel weirdly shameful.

Faris shuts his eyes. One, two, three, four, five. He counts the heaves of his ribcage as he inhales and exhales, five, ten, fifteen times, and finally, he blinks, precisely five times. The chicken’s already going cold as well, no more heat radiating from it when he scoops a chunk up along with more rice and sauce, but he eats it either way. He'd paid too much for this curry to _not_ eat it, after all. On the screen, a school of fish floats past, and he supposes that maybe, he should just stop thinking. Maybe even go back to bed, since there's no real reason for him to be awake, which sounds a lot more depressing than he'd intended to.

When he feels a shift in his gum, a difference in his teeth as he bites down and his canine comes loose just the slightest bit, Faris isn't even surprised.

–

An interview with Cat shows up on his Facebook feed one day. Faris doesn't bother with checking who shared it, but he clicks on the thumbnail almost instantly when he recognises her. It's a BuzzFeed video, _Things London's Vee Community Wants You To Know Right Now_. He drags the mouse to fast-forward, Cat doesn't show up until halfway through.

Apparently, her real name is Rachel, with an Italian-sounding surname. The little caption at the bottom reads, _choir director and singer, Vampire_. She's thirty-four.

“I've been trying to keep quiet about the situation for the longest time, even after the first bodies started appearing.”

Somehow, Faris never expects her voice to have that particular accent when she opens her mouth. She's being interviewed in that monochrome room where all BuzzFeed videos seem to take place, and despite her full name being right there, she insists on wearing those bug-eyed diva sunglasses that hide her face.

“I feel like a problem that I have is thinking that if I ignore something, it'll eventually go away, but at this point, I don't think I have that option anymore. I lead a children's choir, and most of the girls I teach are under the age of sixteen, they go to very posh, very non-Vee schools, so I'm taking a very big risk just by giving this interview.”

Cat's – no, _Rachel's_ – Rachel's little uneven filed-down fang flashes from between her lips as she talks. She's wearing all black yet again, and against the deep-pink of the BuzzFeed room it seems even blacker, her skin even whiter. She's wearing deep red lipstick, too.

“I'm a bisexual Vampire woman, and I'm not ashamed of either of those facts, so I think it's about time for me to come out of the closet. I know what we – Vampires – are going through right now might seem tough, it is tough.”

She gestures into the air as she speaks, like she's talking to a concrete person and not to a distant virtual audience through a video camera.

“But if there's one thing I think is making it worse, it's turning against each other in a situation like this. I do think it's correct that the Vee and LGBT communities have many things in common, but if we want to live through a time like this, we have got to be united.

“As Vampires, we have to remember who's responsible for this, and it's not gay business owners, people who try to use their voice for activism and for something good, and it's not cops, either, it's not about the policemen who are responsible for Sam Dumont's death.”

Faris inadvertently presses his tongue up into the roof of his mouth to soothe the nausea as soon as she'd mentioned it. A little, it's strange how a single statement can conjure up the visceral image that he'd tried to repress so hard, a high-definition memory of something he last saw through grainy phone camera footage. He remembers Sam Dumont's fangs snagging on the baton forced into his mouth so vividly, more than he recalls the blood hanging in the air or the panic that was breaking out around them. _Them_ , he says that as he thinks back to the fact that he was with Rhys and Josh at the time, but he doesn't think either of them remember that day with the same significance.

Well. Josh is afraid of blood. Rhys is… Faris can't think there's much Rhys would be afraid of. They've always seemed to be above that, too otherworldly and bright to concern themself with any negative emotions. Neither of them are afraid of being hunted down for the colour of their skin, or for, well, _being a Vampire_. Faris can repress that knowledge and the ache behind his teeth if he tries, usually, holed up in his flat with nobody to see, but now, he's all too aware of a sudden.

On the screen of his laptop, Rachel says, “This fight is about rich men in suits who pass legislations, they're the ones responsible here. Anything else is only a symptom of that.

“And I think it's equally important for the LGBT community to actively reach out to Vampires. We have to consider that we've got it relatively good in the UK, we've got most of our rights, but we need to think about what our elders went through, and what our siblings in other parts of the world are going through right now, and then consider that having our rights infringed upon, having our government laugh as we die, that's precisely what Vampires are going through over and over. We can't let anyone, whether it's our government or extremists, divide us. In this time, we need to support each other.”

Faris doesn't have the energy to listen as the camera cuts to an old white man, _Richard Studwick, 72, retired painter, Vampire_ , who's somehow even paler than Rachel, albeit that may just be the technicolour blue background that he's sat in front of. His brain feels muted, matted, after he'd spent the days since the BedMates incident deliberately avoiding the news, and now he suddenly dreads what might have happened since then.

Time to go back to David Attenborough.


	11. covenant

The cocktail bar Tom had invited him to is located in Mayfair, not too far off from Oxford Circus and the deepest he's ventured into the city centre since… Well, since Pride, but he'd rather not think about that. Faris googled the name of the place beforehand, a posh, dimly lit top-floor space with a roof terrace that looks much too expensive even if he couldn't find a menu or prices anywhere online. _Mansonia_ , even the name sounds expensive.

When he enters the address he'd been given, Faris already feels out of place. He's late, the time is half past when he'd originally planned to join Tom at nine, but also late to enter such a posh building _in general_. Surely, he's not what the typical fancy Vampire bar patron looks like, even if he dressed up for the occasion. He's wearing an actual button-up shirt under his leathers again, a black polka-dot one that hopefully looks like it cost him more than eight quid.

The elevator's surprisingly subdued, only a mirror attached to one of the steel walls. Faris isn't sure what he expected when he presses the button for the top floor and then the one that closes the doors. Maybe something flashy out of a movie, dim lights and fancy carpet, but on the other hand maybe that's a bit much. After all, Red Room was essentially a normal coffee shop, so there's no reason for this place to not be a normal cocktail bar. Although, in all fairness, Faris has never been to a cocktail bar this posh, and he probably would've expected any other fancy cocktail bar to have a fancy elevator, too.

He hates the way the collar of his shirt feels around his neck, and so, he loosens the first button. In the mirror, his skin is a strange washed-out shade of olive, but this time he knows it's merely the unflattering elevator lights, the blood from days ago still keeping him sated. Faris keeps eye contact with his reflection and runs a sceptical hand through his fringe, grown out far too long now so it hangs into his eyes. If he pushes it to one side to have it fan out sideways across his forehead, his hair looks alright, not too shaggy, he reckons. Now that he thinks about it, his face seems _off_ too, chin still raw on the patch that had been slammed into the pavement, but it goes beyond just that. His eyes, nose, lips, everything on him seems much too big, makes him look more like a caricature than a real person. Faris is incredibly grateful when the bell of the elevator door rings.

One, two, three, four, five breaths before he steps out and towards the bar. It's a short, dim corridor that leads to the entrance, with the brightest source of light being what's radiating from the open elevator doors. The walls are black, what little lighting there is warm, and again Faris is reminded of a womb. Above the door, a sign of polished deep-red wood reads _Mansonia_ in a curly Gothic typeface. He's momentarily unsettled by how well he can make out the letters.

“Evening,” Faris says to the bouncer by the door. His fingers readily clutch the passport in his pocket.

“Hello there. Got any ID?”

The bouncer is white, not stark Vampire-white but the regular pinkish peach kind of white, but he reeks all the same. He's about the same height as Faris himself, but much more muscular. Even in the little light, his bald head and the hoop in his ear glisten as he leans in to squint at Faris' passport.

“You on the list?”

“I'm here with Tom. Cowan.”

Under the bouncer's scrutinising glare, Faris begins to feel uncomfortable. He's all too harshly reminded of the reason why he never liked going to clubs.

“Tom Cowan,” the bouncer repeats, and he turns towards his clipboard to check. “Right.”

One more judgemental glance, but then the bouncer pushes down on the door handle behind him, and Faris steps in.

On the inside, Mansonia is possibly even darker. Tiny white lights stud the counter and the top of the bar, the shelves of spirits dimly backlit, but other than that it's so dark, even with his new-found night vision Faris can barely make out the patrons' faces. The floor appears polished to high shine however, and reflects what little light there is in a deep blood-red shade. Faris decides at this point that Vampires collectively have a twisted sense of humour. The exit to the roof terrace lets in the dusky evening, and he turns and approaches it before his eyes can fully adjust instead of bothering with the bar.

Outside is much more crowded than inside. Every single of the thin-legged square tables is surrounded by elegant figures dressed in black, and a strange intimidation creeps up Faris' back when he begins to walk along the main central aisle in search of Tom. Fittingly, all the furniture is black, too, just like the banister and the awning above the terrace. Only the polished white marble tile beneath his feet provides a contrast.

Masses of bodies aside, this is the reason Faris hates crowded places. Even as he focusses on walking and picking Tom's face out from the crowd, he can feel the glances attach themselves to his back, his shaggy hair, maybe to what he's wearing. He curses himself for not bringing his sunglasses _this one time_ , and the relief is immense when he sees someone waving from the furthest corner of the terrace. Tom, obviously.

His group had pushed together two tables, already crowded when Faris pulls out the last remaining chair to join them. Instead of a proper hello, he gives a brief nod into the round.

“Hi,” he says specifically to Tom.

Tom's wearing his sunglasses, again, and a fancy suit jacket over a t-shirt. Somehow, he makes it look good. He offers his hand.

“Hey. Glad to see you could make it.”

“Yeah, I'm a bit late.”

Tom points out a full glass of red liquid on the table. “I got you a Mary 'cause I didn't remember at the time that you don't like tomatoes. I'll get you something else if you don't want it.”

“It's fine.” Faris reaches out for the drink, still cold. It's garnished with a stick of celery. “Just the texture I don't like.”

Which is a lie, too, but he doesn't want to inconvenience Tom any more than he already has. What he can glimpse of the menu on the table is bad enough, the very first item on it priced at twenty-five pounds. He takes a delicate sip through the straw and has to suppress his revulsion at the stinging vodka and the sour tomato juice, but the metallic sweet note of blood within is enough to content him.

“I'm Faris, by the way,” he says into the round after he's set the glass down.

“Did you guys hear that?” Tom asks, and he repeats, “This is Faris.”

Resounding nods around the table.

“Faris, this is Cathy, my fiancée. This is Eva, and that's Russ.”

Faris nods back. “Hello.”

Cathy, the person next to Tom, is extraordinarily androgynous with her black hair chopped short. She's wearing a button-up that looks remarkably like Faris' own, the same pattern and colours, but hers probably isn't from Primark. Meanwhile, Eva is a freckly ginger girl with sleek long hair, and Russ, the other guy at the table, has dirty blonde hair resembling a halo and a scruffy beard. All of them are the same chalk-white colour as Tom is.

Russ, who's sat closest, extends his hand, and Faris shakes it.

–

The evening drags on and on.

After he finished the Mary, which is apparently called just a _Mary_ on the menu, too, the _Bloody_ bit being redundant, Tom bought him another drink, a Cosmopolitan, no blood in it this time around. Now, Faris has spent about half an hour taking tiny sips from his delicately-stemmed cocktail glass, trying to avoid attention as he hovers on the edge of the conversation. The cranberry juice has enough sugar added to be cloying, and overall, this is probably the gayest beverage he's consumed in a long time, including the pink glittery raspberry schnapps Josh used to get him drunk on.

Not that the drink isn't the most enjoyable part of his evening, either way. Faris can't understand or relate to much of the conversation, unsure of the right moment to laugh, so all he can do is go along with everyone else's reaction. The moments when it focusses on him are short and humiliating.

_“I don't have a job at the moment. I worked retail for almost two years before I got laid off, but I'm going through some stuff right now, so.”_

That's a statement he's sure is going to revolve around his head in every onslaught of self-doubt for the next few months, considering that's precisely what it's been doing ever since he said it aloud. After all, Cathy said she's a music producer, she's worked with Placebo on their last album, and Russ co-owns a gourmet sandwich shop in Shoreditch. Cathy's question of where he went to uni didn't make it better in the slightest, either. Faris counts his breaths and almost considers bringing out his sketchbook, but he doesn't want this group of strangers to pore over his drawings, either.

Finally, when he's finished his gay drink and set the cocktail glass down, Tom breaks away from whatever topic he's invested in to ask, “You alright, Faz? Want another drink?”

Faris doesn't object to the nickname. “I'm good, cheers.” Truthfully, he's nowhere near drunk enough to enjoy himself, but the thought of Tom buying him another drink makes his skin crawl.

“I'll get us another round anyway,” Tom says after he's surveyed the table. “Sure you don't want anything?”

“Just a glass of water,” Faris insists. He's not truly thirsty, but the long-sleeve shirt and the leather are beginning to take their toll.

“I'll come with you,” Eva decisively says.

As they go and walk down the roof terrace back to the bar, she links her arm with Tom's. Eva is a model, mostly young designers and indie magazine editorials, and she's certainly got the looks for it, her face so sharply cut it straddles the line between bland and striking. Standing up in her chunky heels, she looks even skinnier, her limbs stick-like. Faris gazes after the two of them for a second too long.

“I think Eva thinks you're fit,” Cathy says as soon as the two of them are out sight.

Faris asks the first thing that comes to his mind when she unexpectedly addresses him. “Does she?”

“Well, you're pretty much exactly her type.”

Cathy's drinking something that looks like whiskey on ice, but with a deep red tint at the bottom. She's on her third drink, Faris thinks, but the only indication she's even tipsy is a sneer in her voice that wasn't there when he'd arrived.

Faris doesn't know what to do with that information.

“A little bit gothic, a little bit glam rock. The Depeche Mode type of boy.”

She probably intended for that to be a compliment, and Faris decides to take it as one. Personally, he'd never consider himself any of those things. At best he's an emo in a leather jacket.

“Did you ever wear make-up?”

“I wore eyeliner a few times when I was a teenager, but it mainly made me look like a raccoon.”

Cathy laughs. She's got small fangs, barely more noticeable than Josh's pointy teeth, but they definitely haven't been filed down.

Time for small talk. “So, are you from London?”

“Oh, no, I live on the Dartmoor enclave,” she says, as if that doesn't need any added explanation. “Eva's from America, but she's in the UK for a couple weeks to shoot. Russ is the only one out of us who actually lives around here.”

“Actually, I grew up in Brighton,” Russ adds. “Vampires in Sussex do exist, you know.”

Faris assumes it's a joke, so he chuckles behind his hand. “I'm from Hull,” he says. Before either of them can ask where his _family_ is from, he adds, “So how did you meet Eva?”

“Tom chatted her up on FB last week,” Cathy says. Faris must have made a face, because she quickly adds, “You know, FangBangers? The hookup app?”

Faris says, “Yeah. I know what FangBangers is.” Really, that's by far not the most questionable thing about what she'd just said. “Aren't you engaged to him?”

“Yeah, we are.” Cathy smiles and explains, “It's an open relationship, 'cause we live so far apart. So you don't have to worry that my fiancé cheated on me with you, either.”

Which answers the other question Faris had on the back of his mind, the one that he dreaded to think about so much. Tom had never mentioned having a fiancée until tonight, he thinks.

“You're lucky it was Tom of all people to turn you, you know,” Russ says, then. He's got a smooth, deep voice, not as polished as Tom's but with an edge to it that makes everything he says sound slightly passive-aggressive. At least, Faris presumes that's his voice.

“What d'you mean?” he asks back.

For a split second, Russ wrinkles his nose, as if he's about to explain an incredibly obvious concept to a child. Faris is beginning to think he really should've just stuck to the internet to learn how being a Vampire actually works. _How to Integrate Into Vampire Society_ , that’s definitely a Wikihow article.

“Turning someone else is considered a huge stigma in our community,” Russ says then.

“Even if it’s on accident?” Faris asks back, not sure if that’s a stupid question or not.

“ _Especially_ if it’s on accident,” Cathy answers instead, but her tone still makes obvious that it was one.

“If you find out who the person was you’re more or less obligated to take them under your wing,” Russ explains. He lights a fag. “It’s just… Vamp solidarity, to make it as easy as possible.”

“Lucky for you that you got infected by a posh boy from the Colonsay enclave, then,” Cathy adds, and she grins again.

Faris isn’t sure whether he should laugh or not.

Finally, Tom and Eva return to the round. Tom’s carrying a tray for their drinks this time, which he sets down on the table as he slides back into his chair.

“I got you another Cosmo, just in case,” he says.

“Russell,” Eva drawls. She’s got an unfortunately braying timbre, and the more she drinks, the worse it gets. Until just then, it hadn’t occurred to Faris that “Russ” was short for something else. “Why’re you sitting in my spot?”

Russ laughs and apologises and moves one seat down the table so Eva can take his chair.

“Ferris, hi,” she says, tries to sound drunker than she really is, and she grabs her Mary from the tray. Her hand goes to Faris’ forearm, fingernails painted matte black. “I love your shirt, by the way.”

Faris isn’t sure whether or not he should point out the mispronunciation of his name. “Thank you,” he says, and he reaches for the tumbler of ice water Tom had gotten him. Then, when he’s properly processed all the information he’s just received, he adds, “Oh.”

–

Faris ends up taking the night bus back to Hackney, even if Tom had offered to get him a Uber. He sits in the back on the bottom floor again, puts in his noise-cancelling earbuds to think and pulls up that game with the coloured shapes. About three things, he's absolutely positive, and he turns them over and over in his head.

First, the stories about Vampire communes are true. Most of them are in Scotland or Wales, but there's one in Devon, the one Cathy is from, and a few more up north near the border. Apparently, there's even one in North Yorkshire, the Moors, only an hour and a half from his house back in Hull. The one Tom's from, located on an Island off the Scottish west coast, breeds expensive Highland cows – for their blood to drink, and for the beef to sell to high-end restaurants all across Scotland. Completely Halal, obviously.

Second, Tom's going back to his enclave at the beginning of September when the worst of the heatwave should be over. He's already contacted whoever's in charge to let Faris live there, too. Manual labour on the farms with every second weekend off until he finds a job more to his liking, a basic allowance of two hundred quid a month, a roof over his head, and all the blood and food he needs for basically free. They do have flowing water, and gas and electricity, merely no internet or phone reception to avoid the commune location from being tracked. Nobody there has to have their fangs filed off or their name put on an NHS blood trust register.

Faris had said to Tom that he'd think about it, and truth be told, that means _yes_ , but a _yes_ that's meant to sound not desperate. Compared to living off benefits in a council flat or his childhood bedroom, cleaning up cow shit in Scotland and not paying the Vampire tax or living off two shots of blood sounds like heaven. Not when he's got virtually nothing left for him in London, and just then, his phone vibrates with a text.

 _Joshua to GAY GROUP CHAT_ , with the rainbow emoji and the hands-clasped-together one: _we were on the same bus to city centre earlier_

Apparently, he'd neglected to put his phone into airplane mode. Faris swipes up to rectify that mistake immediately.

His gut instinct says that the text referred to him, that earlier tonight, he got on the same bus as Josh without even realising. Did he see Josh on the bus today? Maybe Josh sat on the top deck, and he only caught a brief glance of Faris when he got off, or maybe, Faris actually walked right past Josh and sat behind him for however many stops. Everyone looks the same on a bus.

When the bus turns a corner, Faris locks his phone and takes a glance out the window. The red display says that the next stop is Kingsland High Street, only four stops from his. Of _course_ it has to be. Faris hates coincidences.

Red Room is still open when the bus goes past, or at least, dim orange light comes from the propped-open door. The display window for BedMates is always lit, twenty-four hours a day indirect blue LED lighting. Apparently, Rhys has had the windowpane fixed. The eyeless mannequins glare as the bus goes past like they always do, as if nothing had ever happened. Faris is glad that from the bottom deck he can't see whether anyone is awake upstairs, whether the light is on. Tonight is Friday, they're probably all at some DJ set, a Ladyland, or some play party, something Faris wouldn't have wanted to go to even if he had been invited.

The bus comes to a halt, four-hundred steps away from BedMates. When the doors open and nobody alights, Faris momentarily fears that Rhys or Harry or, worst, Josh is going to climb on and slam their card down on the reader. Before he's thought about it, he's already lowering his head to focus on his phone, as if that would somehow make him unrecognisable. Through the curtain of his eyelashes he watches a girl get on, judged by the black tights and dainty desert boots. He doesn't have the nerve to raise his gaze further up than waist level. The person takes the stairs to the upper deck, and the bus drives on. Maybe Faris should relax. The only ones on the bus at this hour are other people his age, home from a cocktail bar like him or early from the clubs, or doing a late-evening bus ride of shame from a hookup's house. Maybe that was one of Josh's Tinder dates who just got on or a hookup of Harry's.

Third, Faris definitely could have pulled Eva tonight if he'd made any attempt at all. She wanted it, he was sure by the way she twirled her hair and laughed at his jokes when she attempted to make small talk. Maybe he should have, she seemed nice enough, pretty in the weird way if a bit too skinny, and it’s not her fault if her voice is a bit annoying, right?

If anything he’d much rather spend the night in her room than go back to his flat where James is probably having bad sex with a Tinder girl again. Really, even a quick shag in the toilets would’ve been enough for him, maybe even just a snog, any kind of human contact. Faris’ skin feels tingly again, touch-starved but in a desolate way, and the rocking of the bus’ wheels beneath him is beginning to make him feel nauseous.

He’s grateful when the bus finally reaches his stop, even if he’s drunker than he realised when he stands up and gets off. His phone tells him it’s a little past one. The KFC down the street is open until two on weekends, so Faris takes a detour instead of walking straight back to his building. The later he gets there, the more likely it is that James and any potential hookups will have fallen asleep.

Faris orders himself a Mighty Bucket For One, although the thought of eating from a bucket doesn’t exactly make him feel dignified, with chips and a coke and two extra Hot Wings on the side. The restaurant is deserted despite it being Friday night, and he pulls out his phone with the shapes on again to deflect any weird looks from the employees as he eats.

In the strange neon light of the restaurant his skin looks weird again, and the _chicken_ looks weird too, but it’s tender and just-right. Faris is hungry, he thinks, at least, so he shoves the chips into his mouth in bushels between wolfing down the pieces of chicken. He hasn’t had junk food for so long, _real_ junk food not from a microwave or made with weird artisan ingredients. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but this chicken is what he’s been craving all along. When he accidentally bites down on the bone in one Hot Wing and his canine turns nearly ninety degrees with how loose it’s come, he can’t even feign shock.

–

Faris is beginning to think that he shouldn’t check Facebook anymore, because he invariably receives bad news every time. This morning the post in question comes from Rhys again.

_Friends and lovers. Previously I have shared that my baby sister, Harry Elizabeth, the brain behind BedMates and my personal rock, did not return home on Friday night._

Maybe, he should have stopped reading right there. Today is… it’s Tuesday, that’s right. Faris hasn’t left the house or otherwise done much since he stocked up on food on Saturday morning. Something deep inside him tightens, the gullet pipe or the windpipe or his guts or maybe all of it at one time.

_I am posting this just to clear the air in the hopes that you hear it directly from us rather than on the news or the radio. I was informed that today on Tuesday morning August 11 Harry was admitted to the Accident & Emergency at St Mary’s. She was heavily injured but is currently in stable condition and being treated at trauma services. Hopefully Ill be able to see her later today but other than that I dont know whether she’s ready to accept visitors at this time._

It should be a relief to read, but somehow everything within Faris constricts even tighter.

_For all our friends of BedMates we will try our hardest to remain open during our usual hours if not necessarily staffed by the team you know and love. We must keep looking forward…_

For some reason the very last line of the message makes it much, much worse. Faris tightens and tightens when he scans the post again, eyes wide open as he begins to piece the information together. Friday night, the obscure text from Josh to the group chat, and the knowledge that while he was senselessly scared of running into Rhys or Josh on the night bus, both of them were concerned with something much more important… Harry, the knowledge that while he was tipsy on blood and booze, Harry went out and never made it back home.

The text on his phone’s screen begins to vibrate, and for a split second Faris is concerned his hands are shaking before he realises it's his _eyes_ , lids trembly. Or maybe it's the eyeballs that are trembling, irritated by the moisture. He wouldn't go as far as to say he's crying, stagnant tears caught in his eyes that threaten to slip out but don't.

He shuts his phone off and rolls onto his other side, away from the window and his room. Maybe he'll go back to sleep until things make sense.

–

Faris wakes up, and it doesn't. This time it's about one o'clock, and he doesn't even get the sleepy confused haze that usually envelopes him. No, before he's even opened his eyes and turned around to take his meds, since he didn't get around to doing that earlier in the morning, his thoughts return to Harry, to Rhys' Facebook post.

What he feels isn't so much grief as it's guilt, a strange, vulnerable feeling that sits in his throat and all the way in all the organs of his torso. His skin itches so much with having not showered since… Saturday, probably, but more than that the old scars on his legs itch again. Psychosomatic, his therapist had called it at the last appointment, caused by his subconscious rather than anything else, and that's the last thing Faris needs at that moment. Probably it's for the best if he stays in bed for the rest of the day, too.

–

Tom invites him for cocktails again on the next Saturday.

Faris had thought about declining at first, but then he realised even the company of Tom and his middle-class friends would be more pleasant than to stay home with depression and guilt riddling him. At the very least, Tom said he wouldn't make Faris go to Mansonia again. Tonight, he wants to meet in Shoreditch, which is somewhat preferable and much closer to home, so Faris can stay home and consider that he doesn't _truly_ want to go for that much longer.

He's fashionably late once again, albeit he's not sure whether it can truly be considered _fashionable_. Now that Tom's friends already know him and what he looks like, he didn't put that much effort into his outfit. Obviously he took a shower before he left the house, but underneath the leathers he pulled on the pair of skinny jeans with the hole in one knee that wasn't meant to be there and a random baggy black t-shirt from his closet. Only when he was on the 48 bus, after it had already gone past Hackney Town Hall, he realised that he'd actually put on one of Josh's gross My Chemical Romance shirts. Come to think of it, he can't even remember what that tee was doing in his closet in the first place.

The bar where they're meeting this time is a big mainstream establishment geared towards student hipster types. A Vee Positive sticker is stuck prominently to the front door, and on the chalkboard on the pavement fancy letters read, _PROUD TO SERVE ANIMAL BLOOD_ , above a drawing of those plastic fangs people used to wear for Halloween. Faris supposes it's the thought that counts. They've got a terraced area, too, and Tom's texted Faris to say they'd be sitting outdoors again. Now he's waving from their table as soon as Faris steps outside, even if this time it really wouldn't have been necessary.

“Hey there,” Tom says.   

Faris pauses to take his jacket off and drape it over the back of the bench next to Tom. Instead of a real greeting, he says, “Sorry, I'm a little bit late again.”

“Oh no, it's fine,” Tom says, and he gestures towards the remaining drink on the table. “Cosmo?”

“Cheers.”

“I really love your t-shirt, Ferris,” Eva says from across the table. She's wearing a sleeveless dress this time around, and her arms are white and smooth like a statue's. “I was _so_ into them when I was a kid, you know?”

Faris doesn't know how to respond to that, other than the obvious, _my best friend's still really into them_ , but he's not sure whether that would be appropriate, or, again, whether Josh is even his friend anymore.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “Me too.”

“I thought at the time that it was really cool that Gee and Mikey were both Vee, you know?”

“Oh. I didn't know that,” Faris says. Well, he didn't.

He reaches for his Cosmopolitan, which already has the sweet stink of blood wafting from it, and takes a cautious first sip. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad.

Only when the conversation hits a lull after a few hours, Faris realises truly _how_ bad it is.

“Apparently that girl who got kidnapped showed up again,” Russ says after he's finished his drink, something that looks like craft beer but with a bloody tint at the bottom. He's spent the better part of tonight frantically typing on his phone, one of those fancy new flat iPhones.

“Did you just find out about that?” Cathy asks.

Faris presses his tongue into the roof of his mouth. Once again he's conveniently sat so no one is directly across from him, which makes it easy to avoid eye contact, even easier given that he's wearing his sunglasses again.

“I read about it on BBC News when they found her on Tuesday,” Russ expands, “I'm just talking about it now 'cause she talked to the press for the first time today.” Again, he reaches for his phone.

Faris' throat is tight with what feels like all of his organs crammed up there. “Don't show me that, I don't want to see it.”

Eva shoots him an undefinable look just as she takes the phone from Russ. Faris looks away.

“I'm actually friends with her, you know.”

“Oh, that's right,” Tom says, “Rhys' sister, isn't it?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Faris makes it sound a lot easier than he would've expected it to come out. He only belatedly realises that he'd referred to Harry as his _friend_ when he doesn't know whether or not that's what they are anymore. Arguably, Rhys is still his friend, he even went to see them after the attack on BedMates. Maybe, if he's absolutely positive that Josh won't be there at the same time, he'll come visit Harry in the hospital in a few days as well.

“I never really talked to her, I think I only met her twice. It's still a shame what happened to her,” Tom says and sips his drink.

“You know they're gonna find a way to push this one onto us, too,” Eva says after she's returned the phone to Russ.

“What d'you mean?” Faris asks. This time he's fully aware of what a stupid question that was.

“You know, the whole wave of crimes that have been occurring since that protest,” Cathy says.

Eva says, “It's always _the HLF must have done this_ , _Vampiric terrorism is on the rise_ , things like that. It's obvious a lot of it's just a conspiracy from the government.”

She's the second person to say that now. Faris admits that he did comb through some of the weirder corners of the internet after Josh brought the idea up to him, and the more he thinks about it, the more plausible it seems to him.

“They're doing a real bad job of imitating the MO of the HLF,” he says. “Considering they always leave behind a ton of blood, and there's been no resurgence of illegal blood banks and no one ever stepped forward to say, _we're the Haematophage Liberation Force and we're claiming this dead body as our doing_.”

They all definitely knew that before.

Russ says, “They did arrest one guy who had HLF ties in the eighties in connection to the body found outside that restaurant.”

Faris says, “Lemon.”

“But it's true, there really haven't been many arrests, especially after the big-publicity cases like Clarke and that gay sex shop one,” Cathy says. “I'm not surprised if there won't be any kidnappers arrested, either.”

Once again, all Faris can do is press his tongue into the roof of his mouth and count his breaths. One, two, three, four, five, Eva says something but he doesn't listen, and that's another five breaths.

The next time he opens his mouth, he says, “I've been thinking… What if Samuel Dumont knew what he was doing?”

He doesn't remember where he picked that one up, if it was in one of the blog posts shared on his news feed or a YouTube comment on the news footage. Just as soon as he's said it, all heads at the table are turning towards him. Faris sips his drink again to avoid their gazes.

“Like, maybe it was a suicide mission or something… He wanted to die so people would avenge him, to start a new Vampire liberation movement.”

“I really don't think that's what happened,” Tom says in his cool, smooth voice. Tom doesn't talk much, even when the conversation is some topic that doesn't involve Faris trying to socialise, so for a second hearing him speak is startling. “I knew Sam, we were friendly.”

Tom pauses to take a cigarette from his packet of Marlboro's on the table and lights up. Faris hasn't had a smoke in almost two weeks, and he figures he should probably quit for good, but the flick of the lighter makes him crave it. Well, it's either that or this conversation.

“He was a really great guy, a great activist, put most of his free time into it, and a family man. I even met his wife and kids a few times. He always said he was trying to work for a world that his children's children would be safer growing up in.”

“He was also a Black man,” Faris says, and he's surprised at the edge that lays itself into his voice when he says it aloud. “He wouldn't purposely attack a police officer if he didn't know he was going to end up dead.”

Tom wrinkles his forehead. “I don't think that's quite it. I don't think that's what happened.”

“What d'you mean?” Faris asks. He doesn't miss the patronising tone in Tom's voice.

“I mean, the officer initiated it to begin with. I don't think Sam went to speak at that protest with the intent to die.”

“Right.” Faris was literally there. It's shameful to think he didn't consider that nuance. “So he probably did it as a spur-of-the-moment thing. Like, if he was already going to be arrested and probably killed, he might as well take one of them with him…”

“He did have a few outstanding arrest warrants,” Tom says, and it's neither agreeing nor disagreeing in tone.

Faris doesn't know what to say to that. He thinks, _too bad he didn't actually take that copper with him_. Paul Wallis made a swift recovery, and according to what it says online, he's either set to rejoin the force soon or already did. Faris can't remember that right now. He also thinks, _too bad nobody can ask Sam why he did it anymore_. Neither of those seem particularly appropriate, however, so he only sips his Cosmopolitan again.

For a second, the table is dead quiet, before Cathy asks Tom a question. The conversation shifts to something else, something that doesn't directly involve Faris. He only sucks the last few drops from his Cosmopolitan, even if his teeth already hurt too much without the cloying sugar. Since last week the pain's gotten so bad he can't ignore it anymore, his canines so loose in their sockets that he's been chewing any solid foods with his back teeth only. Experimentally, he puts the opening of his straw over one fang, and when he moves it, his tooth shifts with an audible crack.

“Faz?” Tom asks with a look on his face like he's trying to contain amusement from having watched all of that. “Want another drink?”

–

Once again, Faris takes the night bus home by himself. The ride is shorter tonight, but this time around his usual spot in the back is taken, so he's forced to sit on the top deck in the middle of the bus. Since it's Saturday night, the bus is full, girls in cocktail dresses and lads in polo shirts on their way back from the clubs. Still, even in their drunken banter it's apparent that the air feels _different_ , that agitation that's trapped the city over the past two months or so.

Faris pulls up the game with the shapes on his phone again, primarily to have an excuse to keep his head down and avoid becoming the target of someone's mockery. His fingers can't focus to actually tap the right portions of the screen and bounce the shapes into each other, however, and he knows perfectly well that's not from the motions of the bus or the alcohol. He's barely even drunk after two Cosmos and plenty of ice water, and as soon as he's slipped his earbuds in, the chatter fades to white noise just as well. His teeth simply hurt _so fucking much_.

Objectively, Faris knows the pain of teething should be familiar, hell, he still remembers pulling out his own baby teeth as a kid, but he doesn't remember that ache running so deeply into the bone. With every gnash of his teeth, every involuntary motion, the burn behind his canines flares up, so he covers his mouth with his free hand to keep any noise from slipping out. His entire head pounds with it, the sensitive parts at his temples, and inside his ears, and the back of his mouth. No point in getting upset about that now, but as soon as he gets home he's definitely taking a few Paracetamols.

Breaking his nose hurt less than this. Smashing his face into the pavement hurt less than this. Really, _any_ part of becoming a Vampire hurt less than this. Maybe teething is the final hurdle, or maybe he can just… He can.

The flash of black-and-white behind his eyes blinds him for a whole second when he takes hold of the first canine, and he almost drops his phone when he struggles to soothe the throbbing in his skull with his other hand. It's a strange thing about living in the city, perhaps, to realise that he's surrounded by strangers but also aware that they're infinitely more likely to pay no attention, especially when he cautiously looks around and nobody has turned in his direction. For a brief second he considers that maybe he shouldn't, but before that thought gains any traction he's already twisting his tooth.

There's a cracking noise and a pulsing ache in the socket from which he removes the canine, but that's it. Taking out the other one seems much easier now, so before he can rethink, Faris grasps the second tooth and pulls it from his gum. That's _it_. A shudder overcomes him, the involuntary reaction of having that pain suddenly be gone, if only for now, and he exhales deeply.

Both his canine teeth lie in his cupped palm, the long, yellow root bloodied. Faris does feel a bit sick looking down at them, not so much the gore as it's the gut instinct that he _shouldn't_ be looking at this. His mouth tastes like nasty blood again, his gums are still leaking, and they _sting_ , too, the sockets where he'd pulled the teeth out. No longer having achy canines probably let him repress that sensation for a bit. He switches his phone with the game back on to distract himself, fully aware the lad next to him is giving him a strange look now. The realisation that he'll have to keep his teeth in his hand for the rest of the bus ride since he doesn't have anywhere else to put them does make him feel a bit stupid, though.

“'scuse me?”

The next time the bus stops, the lad wants to get off. Faris moves his legs to one side to let him pass, and he watches the top deck slowly empty. According to the LED display, this is _Dalston Junction Station (Stop C)_ , and, he double checks it by looking out the window, just a few hundred steps away from BedMates.

Before Faris can think about it, he's on his feet, but it's too late. The bus starts moving again, and as much as he mashes the button, it doesn't brake.

Faris has to tell Josh now. Now or never, or at least, this seems like the only moment left before it's too late. Too late for what, he isn't sure, but Faris is convinced of it. Luckily he remembers that the next bus stop is only around the corner from the station, and from there BedMates is even closer.

He clenches his fist around his severed teeth when he gets off the bus and all the way when he walks back to the big main road. While he did remember to bring his switchblade again, it's not so much a fear of being attacked that crawls up his back now as it's a feeling of wrongness. Those partygoers from before must have lived really close, or they'd gotten onto another bus or into a taxi as soon as they alighted because the high street is unsettlingly empty now.

Faris can see the glow of the BedMates display window from a few hundred feet away. He's stopped trying to count his steps, too antsy to keep the number straight and not start over every few fives, and his heart is pulsing too fast for him to possibly count the beats. The baby blue LED lighting isn't so much inviting as it feels clinical and almost hostile, illuminating the smooth, fake mannequins. One's wearing a new outfit, Faris thinks, but from the other side of the street it's difficult to tell for sure. Red Room is still open, again, with the orange glow from within spilling out onto the pavement. Right in this moment it looks so much more inviting than the BedMates shop window, not to mention the blue light that flickers in the living room window above.

Tonight is a Sleepover night, the third Saturday of the month. Rhys' car isn't parked in front of the shop as usual, so Josh must be home alone watching cartoons again. Faris is honestly surprised that Sleepover is still on, that Rhys must have said the truth in the Facebook post. Or maybe they're the one who's home alone, watching their Call The Midwife box set, and Josh has taken the car to go shag some girl. Faris bites his tongue to get himself to focus, and he's once again startled when the pointed teeth in his lower jaw don't come anywhere near his canines.

He crosses the street when he sees no headlights in the distance, momentarily focussed enough to be able to count his steps. Still his heart booms all the way up in his throat, and he curses himself for not buying any fags. Maybe he could bum one from Josh before the moment of revelation comes, or he could go into Red Room and ask one of the patrons there for a smoke. Maybe he should just have a light snack, he's got a fiver in his pocket which should at least buy him the cheapest sandwich without any special sauce added.

Faris enters Red Room and almost walks straight back out when he realises who's on duty behind the counter. She's chatting to a customer, or maybe a friend, which would've been the right opportunity for him to turn around and leave, but it's too late. Kiki, the girl from FangBangers, turns her head to look right in his direction.

“Good evening?”

Faris could pretend to study the sandwich menu to give him a few more seconds to compose himself, but he realises just as soon that would be pointless and would only make the situation _more_ awkward.

“Hi. Excuse me, I just wanted to ask… Could I use your bathroom real quick?”

At least, he manages to form whole coherent sentences, but judged by the look on her face his enunciation wasn't quite as good.

“Sorry?” she asks, and then, like it took her a second to process his words, she adds, “Our bathroom is for customers only.”

“It's an emergency,” Faris says, which is only half a lie, and he pulls up his lip to show the hole where his tooth was.

“ _Oh_ ,” Kiki exclaims, a delicate but scandalised exhale. Generally, her voice is much lighter than Faris would have expected it to be. “It's on the top floor, in the back corner furthest away from the stairs.”

In the tiled bathroom Faris stands in front of the mirror, although he has to bend down a little ways to see his whole face. He looks good, healthy in spite of that weird neon lighting every bathroom seems to have, which is definitely thanks to the bloodied cocktails from tonight. As soon as he pulls his mouth open like he had done downstairs, though, he doesn't look so good anymore.

Objectively it couldn't have been that much he bled from his gums, so it must be the saliva mingling that's at fault, but the entirety of his teeth is stained red. Like he's been eating strawberries, or on the hunt perhaps. The thought of that makes him sick again, and he lets the cold water run from the tap and cups his hands beneath it.

On the little plaque above the sink, it clearly reads _NOT DRINKING WATER_ , but it should be good enough to clean his mouth, even if it reeks of chlorine when he raises his hands to his face. Faris gargles a few times and feels his mouth getting dryer with it, and when he spits into the sink, the water is tainted with strings of red. He washes it away and bares his clean teeth to his reflection again, his smile strange with the two gaping holes in it, and he washes his hands with the cinnamon-scented soap. After a brief moment of consideration, he leaves his canine teeth in the bin for the paper towels.


	12. climax

After Faris has thanked Kiki a second time and declined her offer of ice cubes, and after he's thought better than to apologise to her for _the incident_ , he's standing on the pavement again. Now there's absolutely nothing left for him to do before he goes and confronts Josh. Before he comes out of the coffin, so to speak, although that's one of those lurid figures of speech that date back to medieval stereotypes. Besides, the thought of comparing himself to an undead corpse does make Faris a bit uncomfortable.

Deep breaths. One, two, three, four, five.

Faris pulls out his phone and turns off the airplane mode. There's no immediate onslaught of notifications bombarding him, which means there's nothing he could utilise as a distraction anymore. He opens his messages and taps on the conversation with Josh, the same eight unread texts from two weeks ago.

He doesn't bother with reading them and instead types, _I'm outside your house. can I come in_

For a few seconds, the screen simply says _delivered_ , without the read receipt. Maybe Faris was right with that train of thought earlier, maybe it's not actually Josh watching TV behind the window. He counts his breaths once again, five, ten, fifteen. Twenty. He doesn't look down at his phone once.

When he's gotten to two-hundred-and-twenty-five breaths, five times five times nine, his phone buzzes in his hand.

_you still have the key right_

Obviously he still does. The skin underneath the pocket where he keeps his keyring burns with the sudden reminder.

_Yeah but can I come in??_

This time Faris doesn't have to wait as long.

_go on ahead_

That's it.  Faris takes another five breaths, and finally he turns around and unlocks the door. He doesn't hesitate with taking his boots off this time around, no hurry to leave before Josh shows up. Obviously not. Once again, the stairs creak under his feet, but this time Faris can already hear the voices from whatever TV show Josh is watching.

What's more is that Josh is waiting for him on the landing. He looks normal, or, well, like what Faris had expected him to look like. Limp hair, smudgy make-up, big ratty t-shirt and trackies, and his feet on the hardwood are covered in fluffy socks. Faris only looks at him for a second before they both walk into the living room. Josh raises his hand with the remote in and puts South Park on mute.

“Nice shirt,” he says.

For some reason, Faris has to look down to remember what he's wearing again. Without a hint of irony he replies, “Thank you.”

So far, so good.

“Do you want to sit down?” Josh asks. “Sorry, I fell asleep on the couch.”

Faris hesitates with actually sitting down, but he does walk across the room so he can stand by the sofa, and Josh follows him with a few customary feet distance between them. Here it comes. He takes another few seconds to count his breaths. His heart booms in his throat, well aware that Josh is now watching him, concerned but not condescending. Maybe that's one thing that hasn't changed between them.

“Josh,” he finally says, and it feels like he's speaking to the judgement of tens of thousands of people, like he's Sam Dumont with his megaphone. Bad metaphor.

Faris shuts his eyes and opens them again a whole five times. Josh doesn't even budge, just that same look on his face to indicate that when Faris is ready, he'll listen. Faris breaks the eye contact to look at the trinkets and framed photos on the rack above the TV instead.

“I'm a Vampire.”

For a split second, the tension in the room is so thick he could cut it with a knife. The very air he sucks in on his next breath is vaguely gelatinous. One, two, three, four, five heartbeats, then Faris turns to look at Josh again.

Josh exhales with an indignation that Faris can't place. His eyes are so watery in the light, and his face twists into something, a shaky smile or a grimace.

“Could you just… stand really still for me?” he asks, and his voice shakes just as much. “And can you bend down a little ways?”

Faris does as he's told, even if he's not sure what for. When Josh takes a deep inhale, he mirrors it, bracing himself for whatever Josh is about to say. Any argument, accusation, stereotype, he runs them all through his brain in milliseconds to retort, but…

Well. He definitely doesn't expect Josh to reach out and clip him round the ears instead.

“Ow!” Faris exclaims when he takes a reflexive step back and covers his cheek, and it's just as much shock as it's genuine pain. Where Josh's hand had connected, the bone under the skin pounds. “What the hell was that for?!”

“I _know_!” Josh shouts back.

Faris almost flinches when Josh lunges for him again, this time to pull him into a much-too-tight hug.

“I know,” Josh repeats, his voice muffled and oddly blubbering against Faris' clavicle, but no less insistent in what he's saying. His fingers claw into the back of Faris' shirt to pull. “I knew the whole time, you stupid idiot boy.”

Faris doesn't know what to say to that. He wants to ask, obviously, _how_ Josh knew and why he never brought it up, but at this second he can't even take offence to the insult or the smack that still rings in his brain, for that matter. All he can do is slump into Josh's warm, soft body, wrap his arms around his shoulders and hold him close. Josh is shaking with the tears rocking his upper body now, but Faris' legs are shaking just as well. He's not sure which of them is holding the other one up.

“Josh,” Faris says, the only thing that he can bring himself to press out of his clogged throat, and he tries his hardest to make it sound supportive and encouraging.

“We all knew about it,” Josh says, and he audibly sniffs, which leaves a wet stain on Faris' shirt. Not that it's truly his to begin with. “The whole time.”

“Josh,” Faris repeats. It almost hurts to get the word out now, his whole body pulled much too tightly. He wants to ask the obvious question, still, but his lips are shaking too now. All he can settle for is to press them to the crown of Josh's head.

“I wouldn't have cared, you know?!” Josh croaks. He squeezes Faris tighter, so tight his hold almost hurts more than the ache on the inside. Only almost. “Rhys and Harry didn't care either.”

He sniffs again, the loud, snorting sort of sniff, but Faris can't bring himself to let go or even ask if he needs a tissue. His head feels like radio static again.

“You didn't need to go and cut yourself off for fucking weeks,” Josh insists, and his voice is somehow raw and wet at the same time. He keeps squeezing around Faris' middle, so tight his upper half goes limp and all Faris can do is drape himself around Josh. “You could've just talked to us. I almost want to slap you again, you stupid, stupid fucking cunt.”

Whether it's just because of the particular word choice, Faris doesn't know, but that's what does it. He presses his nose into Josh's clean hair, and he allows himself to let go. At first it feels weird, the inconsolable watery feeling as his eyes begin to leak, but just as soon crying becomes easy. Like a dam that collapsed, Faris only keeps holding onto Josh and hacking out silent, messy tears. He can't even remember the last time he genuinely _cried_ , but now his nose is beginning to run and it feels good, like the fresh feeling of getting out of a hot shower. The front of his shirt keeps getting wetter.

For a while, Faris cries with relief and with his own idiocy and the radio static in his brain, and in turn Josh cries with anger or relief or something else Faris can't figure out. Finally, Faris cries at the realisation that both of them are crying, but he can't stop until some time after that when his eyes have run dry.

It remains quiet for a long time, a surreal moment only illuminated by whatever commercial is playing on the TV. Josh's eyes must have ran out as well, his back no longer heaving with tears, but he doesn't budge from his position tucked under Faris' chin. Just as well, because Faris can't help but think to himself how well they fit together. He doesn't want to break out of the hug just yet. In his arms, he can feel every tiny heave of Josh's ribcage when he exhales, and he counts.

Finally, when he's gotten to one-hundred, Faris says, “Hey.”

Josh sniffs one more time as he looks up, and a string of snot disappears back up his swollen nose. His splotchy face is crusty with both that and tears, but his mouth curves up into a fragile smile.

“Hey,” he repeats.

“Wow,” Faris says, and he's not sure what it's in reference to. Everything, probably.

“I'll go clean myself up in the bathroom,” Josh says. “You know where the tissues are? And we have leftover chicken parmesan in the fridge, if you want to eat something.”

“Okay.”

Just like how it's always been.

–

After Josh comes back from the bathroom and the chicken is done heating up in the microwave, they sit on the sofa to eat, feet on the coffee table. Josh's favourite blanket, the ancient one with the Batman symbol print, lies across both their laps, and Josh rests his head on Faris' shoulder. They mostly eat in silence, since one of the many Channel Four offshoots is showing old episodes of The Inbetweeners and Faris supposes that's _slightly_ more tolerable than South Park. Every once in a while Josh nuzzles his shoulder however, and every single time Faris' skin tingles with it.

During a commercial break, Josh says, “You can stay the night here if you like, you know? We can sleep in Rhys' room, they're staying at the Sleepover flat again.”

Faris only nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

He likes it too much when Josh casually says _we_ , another indication that, for Josh, nothing has changed between them.

“And we were going to visit Harry in the hospital tomorrow. If you want to come along.” Before Faris can reply, Josh adds, “It's gonna be my first time seeing her, too. So you don't have to feel bad or anything.”

Faris says, “Okay.”

Now that their empty plates are stacked on top of each other on the coffee table Faris can drape an arm around Josh's shoulders, and he leans in to kiss Josh on the forehead. Josh doesn't protest. Whether it's simply the food that made him tired or the conversation had been this exhausting, Faris doesn't know that, but his eyes won't stay open as much as he tries.

“Josh?” he asks. “I kind of want to go to bed.”

That, they do. Josh lets Faris borrow his spare pair of trackies so he won't have to sleep in his jeans, and they slide into the double bed in Rhys' room. Faris picks the side of the bed closest to the window, hooks his phone up to Rhys' spare charger, and he pulls the duvet all the way up past his shoulder. Rhys' bed is nearly as big as Harry's, and the bedclothes are smooth and clean, not at all soaked with sweat the way his own are. For a second Faris finds it strange that his last time in this room, he was having wild fast sex with Josh, and now he's lying at the very edge of the bed to maximise the space between them.

Just as soon as they've both settled down and Josh has shut off the bedside light, however, he asks, “Faz?”

Faris nudges one elbow underneath his pillow in the hopes of making this position more comfortable for himself, and he also hopes the sound of the rustle is enough to indicate he's still awake. When Josh doesn't say anything else, though, he speaks up.

“Here.”

“D'you want to spoon?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He shimmies along the sheets until he's closer to the centre of the bed, where Josh can wrap his arms around his middle. This time around Faris is the little spoon and Josh the big spoon, and Josh presses his forehead against Faris' nape and his lips to the space between his shoulder blades.

Faris is drowsy, so tired his head already begins to spin, and Josh's body is warm and steady behind him like a human hot water bottle. Still, his throat won't quite loosen up from its previous state of constriction, too tense with the knowledge that this conversation isn't possibly over.

“Good night, you big bird,” Josh says.

But right now, Faris is too sleepy to worry about that.

“Good night, Josh.”

–

The morning begins slowly. Faris takes a while to actually keep his eyes open after he's opened them the first time, even with the light that's streaming through the blinds. Every time he blinks awake, however, he can very clearly feel Josh behind him, who apparently hasn't moved from his position.

Josh's a snorer, a snore too gentle to actually be disturbing, and Faris genuinely feels bad at the idea of waking him up. For now he can probably stay like this with Josh's arms tight around his waist, even if the position is beginning to get slightly uncomfortable and his legs already feel sweaty. Faris shuts his eyes again, and he waits.

He doesn't have to wait for too long.

“Faz,” Josh mumbles, after his snores have gotten quieter and quieter and finally died off. He carefully headbutts the back of Faris' neck, and he says, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Faris says back. He wiggles in Josh's grip and announces, “I have to piss.”

Which, in all fairness, he does. On his way back, he puts the kettle on in the kitchen, and when it's done boiling, he pours two cups of tea in two of Josh's bear mugs. Two sugars and milk in each of them, and he's good to go.

“Made you a cuppa.”

Josh's sitting Indian style at the top of the bed now, and he reaches out to accept when Faris holds out one of the mugs. “Cheers.”

Faris sits down at the other side of the bed, and he draws up his legs tightly to his chest. The room still hasn't warmed up from the sunshine outside, enough to draw a thin layer of goosebumps over his skin, and he pulls the duvet back up over his knees.

They drink in silence until Faris is down to half his mug and until his mind is slowly waking up with the caffeine. Even the fresh water he’d used to wash down his meds in the bathroom couldn’t startle him awake, a sated tiredness that was too insistent about staying inside his bones.

“So…” he begins very deliberately. He waits until Josh looks up from his own mug and turns around. Faris asks, “Are we going to talk about what I said last night?”

“I said I didn't care,” Josh says back, much calmer than he'd said it last night. Still, his voice is soft in a way that Faris hasn't heard before, and he more than anything wants to crawl into that vulnerable core Josh is exposing and assure him it's alright. “I meant what I said, it's… It's fine by me. If you're a Vampire.”

The tea is still too warm to down it all in one go, technically, but Faris finishes his mug in a single sip so he can set it down on the bedside instead. The liquid pools hot in his his gut, an unpleasant, heavy warmth, but that's balanced out by the fuzzy feeling that surrounds his head at Josh's words. Comfort is a much more pleasant radio static, white and soft like downy feathers or the mildest tipsiness. It's definitely the most at ease with himself Faris has felt ever since this whole mess started.

“Faz? Are you okay?” Josh asks.

“Yeah,” Faris says back. Apparently, it took him a bit too long to react as he was processing that information. He blinks, one, two, three, four, five times. “I heard what you said. I'm okay.”

“Okay,” Josh repeats, and for the first time in a good while, his smile doesn't shake.

Faris doesn't hesitate before he pulls Josh into a hug, an awkward sideways hug with Faris' knees still between them, but nonetheless. He doesn't say anything else, and he shuts his eyes with his face on Josh's shoulder. The silence isn't uncomfortable, and it's not the casually-comfortable silence of quietly smoking a bong on the couch either; This time, it runs deeper to Faris' insides and his thumping heart, and he questions whether it can even be considered true _silence_.

In reality, so much happens at that very second, and all of it centres in on their arms around each other's backs. Like looking through a microscope in awe of all the small components, the unimaginably large amount of tiny things that make up everything, Faris feels like the moment has been zoomed in on. It's almost unbearably overwhelming, in the sense that it brings the tightness back to his throat and his watery eyes, but he doesn't want to let go by any means.

With his senses amplified he can hear Josh's breath, smell his salty sweat and the sleep that still clings to him, feel every heave of his back whenever he exhales. His own heart booms loud and even in his chest, and he doesn't count along. Instead he wonders, if they were any closer, if there was no space between their bodies, whether he could feel Josh's heartbeat as well. Faris wants to inhale Josh's breath, wants to smell the blood close under the skin and feel him as close as he can be.

Like he read his mind, Josh puts his mouth to Faris' ear and whispers, “Closer?”

Faris always found it strange, on the rare occasion they'd shared a bed before and once a tent at Reading Festival last year, how well he and Josh fit together in the horizontal. Vertically, the difference is gaping and obvious, but sideways, it shrinks away and he can watch Josh's serene smiling face next to his.

“Better,” Faris agrees.

Josh has a weird face, an almost cylindrical nose and too many dimples, like he'd been crudely carved out of a lumpy material. His eyes are a weird colour too, his eyelashes short and dark, but Faris could probably spend the next stretch of time counting them one by one, considering how he can't tear his gaze from Josh's face. He absently wonders what Josh is thinking about right now, and whether his mind isn't with what happened last night anymore, either.

“Hey.” Josh nudges his head against Faris' and asks, “Why're you staring at my face?”

“No reason,” Faris says, and it's about as truthful as it can be.

Josh's face only happens to be there, happens to be soft and strong at the same time and mesmerising in it.

“You're gay,” Josh insists, but when his face moves that tiny bit closer, it's Faris who moves away.

“Josh?” he asks. “You know how I got it, right?” He doesn't believe Josh knows that particular detail, but he's formulated it that way before he could think about it. Before Josh can do more than shoot him a questioning look, Faris adds, “How I became a Vampire. I got it from kissing, it's transmitted through spit in open wounds.” That's the simplest explanation.

“Sleepover,” Josh only says, like a question that demands no answer.

“Proof that what happens at Sleepover doesn't always stay at Sleepover.” Towards Josh, the joke doesn't seem particularly inappropriate.

Josh laughs. “I don't mind, you know. You don't have to kiss me with tongue to be my boyfriend.”

_It's really unlikely for you to get it. I'd know if you had it._ That's what Faris initially thought to reply, but when Josh makes the second half of that statement, he loses the ability to form independent thought.

He only repeats, “Your boyfriend.”

The word sounds much bigger in the quiet room and the tiny space between them.

“That's what we are, right? Boyfriends.”

Josh leans in again, and this time Faris shuts his eyes and lets it happen. His heart still booms so loudly in his throat when Josh kisses his lips, the corners of his mouth and his cheeks, over and over. Faris doesn't need to say anything else to agree with him. Josh only holds him so tightly, pulls him as close as he can get, and as much as Faris enjoys it and holds him just as near in return, he really wants to kiss Josh now.

Faris carefully, carefully turns Josh on his back to lie between his thighs, apparently enough to press the first tender noise from Josh. His mouth doesn't smell anything like blood, so Faris doesn't hesitate to capture Josh's lips between his own and snog him deeply, and he isn't even bothered by the taste of morning breath. Josh yields for it, licks back at him in turn and buries his fingers in Faris' t-shirt, and Faris only pulls back when he needs to exhale.

“The odds are really small that you'll get it the same way I did,” he says. “Like, one in ten thousand.”

“Just so long as you don't bite me,” Josh says back.

Maybe Josh was right when he first said that snogging during casual sex made him feel weird. Faris still thinks that kissing is the greatest thing he could do to another person's mouth, but the deeper he sinks into the warm, wet feeling of Josh's, the more he questions how he could do this with Rachel or any other of his Sleepover hookups, or Josh in the past, for that matter. He wants so much, even more when he can feel another part of Josh that's wet and warm underneath him, but what he craves isn't so much sex as it's specifically _Josh_.

His mouth feels bee-stung by the time Josh asks him to take his shirt off, but he wouldn't want to pull away either way. The sensation of bare skin against his gives him goosebumps, just as well as it raises Josh's nipples up stiff where their chests touch. Faris can't stand it anymore then, the thin film of sticky sweat on Josh's sides he can very clearly feel but not _smell_ , not in the way he wants to smell Josh, at least.

“You smell so good.”

Josh only cackles in response when Faris buries his head in the soft crook of his neck. “Your hair's tickling me.”

Faris hums into the skin. He's missed this so much, Josh's soft skin and his individual musk, and it's even better when he's still unwashed without the Lynx ruining his scent. He ruts his hips down towards Josh's slit, and just in turn, he gets Josh's blunt nails trying to scratch his back. Josh never wears underwear to sleep if he can help it. If Faris wasn't already goosepimpled all over, that bit of information would be sure to run a shudder up his back. He has to reach down to readjust his half-hard cock in his pants, _why is he the one between them who's wearing pants_.

“Don't ever get a dick,” he says to Josh, “They're just annoying.”

Before he can stop himself, Faris has licked a long stripe in the crease where Josh's neck melds into his chest, salty-sweet with sweat. Whether Josh's choked-off giggle is in response to that or his actual words, he doesn't know.

“Your dick's not _annoying_ ,” Josh insists.

He hums again when Faris nuzzles the side of his throat where the blood pulses closest under the skin, where both that and the pheromones are most intense. Maybe there's a reason people call it _bloodlust_ , because what the smell of Josh's blood makes him feel is less hunger and a lot more carnal. This time he's sure it must be Josh's distinct scent in particular, another aspect of him that has the same effect as his sweat and skin, makes Faris dizzy with how quickly he's getting hard.

“I know just where you can put it in me.”

Faris would laugh, if Josh's breathy, genuine voice and his own desire to do just that didn't make him groan into Josh's shoulder instead. He ruts his hips down once again, and he wants much more than that, wants to shed all the layers between them so he can finally feel Josh's bare cunt around him. Still, when Josh crosses his ankles behind his back to keep him close, Faris holds him closer again, the closest he can get when they aren't physically having sex. Even on his back, the air feels sweaty and red-hot, and it only gets hotter in the places where they touch. Outside can't possibly be warm enough for the room to be this humid, especially with the blinds closed, and Faris realises it must come from within, the pure, undiluted force of shagging. He's absently aware that the sweat is sticking his borrowed trackie bottoms to his legs, but just as soon decides that he doesn't care.

If Josh is any more bothered by the fact that they're both still half-dressed, he doesn't say it. He pulls Faris back up to kiss him again with one hand on the back of his head, and his fingers are almost tight enough to hurt in his scalp. Even if Josh yanked hard enough to rip his hair from the root, Faris doesn't think he would care. Josh uses the leverage he has to buck his hips back up against Faris', to rub against him like a cat in heat, the most literal definition of the word _heat_. Faris' _cock_ is beginning to feel sweaty in his pants, why is he still wearing pants anyway?

“Take your trackies off,” Josh insists, but his voice has become sticky and slurred with sex. He grips Faris' arse through the layers of material to squeeze, and he repeats, “Take them _off_.”

“Only if you take yours off, too.”

Faris kicks his pants and trackie bottoms off towards the foot of the bed, and he helps Josh pull his own off just as soon. The bare air on his bottom half is a much-needed relief, even if it's only a split second before he's back to pressing himself against Josh, and before he can deliberately rub his cockhead up and down Josh's slit.

“Fuck, come on,” Josh exhales. He's so drippy wet, even by his standards, wet like how his skin is coated in a film of sweat. Somehow, the wetness has even leaked into his voice.

Faris goes ahead and slides in. He drops his head to Josh's neck to inhale his musk and then exhales, the air pressed out from him by Josh's walls squeezing down all around his cock. For a second, he stays just like this, as deep inside as he can get, and he listens to Josh's breath come out in sync, a long, deep hiss.

“It hurts,” Josh whispers, mouth conveniently next to Faris' ear. Before Faris can say or do anything in response, he adds, “It always hurts. Every single time.”

His fingers go back to where they belong, clawed into Faris' scalp, and in that particular moment, Faris is so overwhelmed by Josh's plushy-soft insides and his smell and what he just said, he forgets to do anything but breathe.

“How about you actually fuck me so it goes away?”

Josh has to direct Faris' head for them to be face-to-face, for him to lick into Faris' mouth. His cunt pulses like it's trying to draw him in deeper, and Faris can feel the drag of Josh's knuckles against his belly. Finally, he switches back on and kisses Josh in return, his arms on the pillow framing Josh's messy head. In the split second before he shuts his eyes, he notes the strange glow that surrounds Josh's pink face and the blonde of his fringe, and that's how Faris feels, too, bathed in a surreal white warm light.

Finally, Faris whispers, “Okay.”

He moves away slowly, and _slowly_ is how he fucks Josh, too, slow, shallow thrusts. With every pull-back, he withdraws almost all the way, until only his bellend is still keeping Josh open, with every push-in, he only allows the first few inches of to slip in; To push against all the good spots inside Josh and not hurt him, Faris wants that, but a larger part of him simply wants it to not be over too soon. Josh keeps on touching himself, rubbing his cock between his fingers to the rhythm of his thrusts, and if it's possible, his hole drools even more around Faris' dick.

He's still so tight, still has that pull in his walls when he opens up to Faris' thrusts, a delicious squeeze that pulls Faris' throat closed. He has to shut his eyes even tighter in the crook of Josh's neck, and with every soft groan that hiccups from Josh's mouth he gets even more choked-up, even more needy. He doesn't feel the heat in his belly or the pull in his balls yet, the signs he's close to coming, and still, Faris feels incredibly strung-out, pulled-tight into a sinewy, desperate mess.

“You awful tease boy,” Josh insists, finally.

Well, about that _finally_ , Faris could stay like this for the rest of today just to drive them both mad with it.

“Come fuck me deeper.”

A part of Faris wants to say _no_ , the big part, but the other part of him is just as needy to get as much of his cock as possible immersed in Josh's velvety cunt. Josh hisses when he pushes in, even with their mouths still fused together in a kiss, and Faris only barely keeps himself from pulling back in concern. Apparently, it still must've been obvious.

“I love it when it hurts,” Josh whispers, and it's probably meant to reassure him. “Come on.”

Faris only hums and presses his nose behind Josh's ear again. He fucks Josh slowly, still, but as deeply as he can, and he relishes every tiny noise that pushes out from him with every thrust. Every single gasp, breath, moan, once again it's amplified enough to make his head spin. Only Josh's nails biting into the skin of his back make Faris realise he's no longer touching himself, either, and that turns him on possibly even more than being able to slide almost his entire cock inside.

Josh's cunt feels exquisite, juicy plush that grips him tightly with an intensity, and even more so when Josh rocks his hips back up to meet him. _Most nerve endings within the penis are in the head_ , Faris remembers that phrase from one of Rhys' brochures or maybe their sex education notes. Nonetheless, being so deep inside Josh feels so much better it runs a shiver up his back; He's tighter at the deep end, hotter, and like this, Faris can press his body so much closer to Josh's.

Which also means Josh immediately feels it when Faris laughs about the very phrase _nerve endings within the penis_ that just went through his head.

“Why're you laughing?” he asks, voice husky with dick.

“Nothing,” Faris insists.

The laugh has already spread to Josh, however, and with Faris' cock still moving inside him, it comes out distorted and exhilarated. Faris has no choice but to kiss him to shut him up.

Around them, the room somehow has gotten even hotter, but it's done nothing to melt the goosebumps from Faris' back. Not only their bodies and the mattress, the very air seems boiling with sweat, and Faris absently wonders if that's the Vampire senses changing how sex feels, his altered sense of temperature, or if it's something more. Josh's mouth, despite the heat, is still so sloppy and inviting, Faris slots a hand in his hair in return to keep them lined up to kiss.

Even now, Josh's still gasping and giggling whenever they break apart, and as much as Faris can't bear to keep his mouth away, he wants to hear much, much more of that. Whether he ever truly listened to the noises Josh made before, he doesn't remember that, but now he can't get enough of it. Josh is _loud_ , of course, he's always been, but Faris never bothered with picking out the individual gasps, the harsh breaths.

“Ah, fuck,” Josh exhales when Faris gives one particularly deep thrust.

He contracts his insides in a deliberate squeeze, again and then again, and his fingers in Faris' scalp push his head where it belongs, back into the sweaty skin of his throat. Josh pants, claws himself deep into Faris and writhes back up against him, and all Faris can do is keep his eyes squeezed shut and inhale him. He doesn't dare to open his eyes, overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensation. Much like pressing his balled-up fists into his eyelids, fireworks explode in his vision, frantic and erratic like his breathing.

Josh just _came_ with no stimulation but Faris' cock deep inside him; Faris only realises when he finally sucks in a proper inhale and sniffs the heady, tangy-sweet smell of it in the air. The realisation almost makes him dizzy.

“Wait, wait.”

Josh makes a feeble noise of protest, and Faris himself wants nothing less than to pull out of Josh. He shudders at the bare air, his dick covered in a mixture of frothy and clear white fluids, but at the same time, seeing it only makes him crave it that much more.

“Don't want to come yet,” he whispers to Josh's pinking face, flushed so deep it looks physically hot to the touch, and he sticks out his tongue.

It's a lie, or at least half a lie, the need to taste Josh's cunt so much greater than the need to get off that's building in the pit of his stomach. Faris shuffles down the bed, only now grateful for how big it is, and he shoves a throw pillow under Josh's hips before he dives in. He goes in nose-first, thumbs spreading Josh's slit wide so he can tongue between the folds and get all the excess slick out, even sweeter than it smelled from afar.

Faris wants to rock his entire face up into Josh, wants to be on his back for Josh to use his mouth, and more than anything else, he wants _more_. Far above him, Josh still breathes heavily, twitchy much like the hamstrings in his legs and the flesh of his cunt, and Faris wants to make that much, much worse. He sucks at Josh's inner lips, the meat tender and deep red from being fucked so vigorously, before he finally slides his mouth up to take Josh's cock inside.

“Ooh, fuck.”

Josh is hiding his face behind his hands when Faris casts a glance upward, muffling any noise that may slip out. As much as he misses the fingers in his scalp, knowing he got Josh _flustered_ makes him feel all the more dizzier and surprisingly smug. He shuts his eyes to focus on what's in his mouth, fluttering his flat tongue up against the head of Josh's dick, the taste and smell and the sensation of wiry hair grinding back against his face.

Faris didn't realise he was craving it this badly. He powers through the ache in his jaw, so needy to lick the sensitive raw head while his own cock throbs against the sheets and his thumb experimentally dips into Josh's front hole. Only when his breathing turns erratic with how close he is, Faris pulls off and switches to lapping into Josh's cunt so his nose rubs against Josh's cock, so he can eat up all the slick as it gushes out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Any further fucks that may have slipped out from Josh get mangled beyond recognition in his palms mashed into his mouth, and Faris doesn't stop licking him. His cock feels much too heavy between his thighs, but he wants to make Josh come a third time, wants to make him cry and twist and kick his legs. More than that, he needs that heat back.

Like he had the same thought, Josh pulls himself together enough to whisper, “Come here, come here.”

When he's crawled back up the sheets, Faris knocks his bellend against Josh's sore cunt once again, half expecting a sound of protest.

Josh only hums. “Come stick it back in,” he insists, and his arms and one leg wind back around Faris to pull him in, just how it's meant to be.

Somehow, his body's gotten warmer, feverish with the two orgasms, and Faris both wants to get him even hotter and wants some of that warmth for himself. He's dimly aware that the lower half of his face is sticky when Josh draws him down for a kiss, mouth still lined with the taste of cunt.

Even with his slit so drippy, Josh still winces when Faris slips back in, or maybe precisely because of the overstimulation. He's tighter with the new angle, the pillow supporting his bum, and despite how raw he may be, he still brings a hand back down to stroke himself. Faris can't imagine how that feels, but the very thought of it makes him want to keep going, despite the heat in his belly and down in his balls, makes him want to fuck Josh until he cries.

His mouth finds Josh's again as he pumps in and out, licking up the saliva gone thick with fucking, as if all the wetness had trickled down to Josh's cunt instead. Just as soon he realises that's what Josh must be tasting, the tangy-sweet of his own slick that's plastered all over Faris' mouth and jaw that won't leave his tongue. Even through the kisses, Josh won't shut up, breaths that are a little more than pants but only _almost_ moans. He's never been quiet, but Faris only realises the subtle nuances now, how his constant vocal exhales get interrupted at every thrust-in and every thrust-out by a more piercing whine, whenever Faris' cockhead snubs against the good spots.

Faris grabs the soft spot where Josh's thigh meets his arse for leverage and Josh pulls him down by the nape of his neck in turn. Like this, they're crowded so close that Faris can't do much but keep kissing Josh, keep fucking him with short, fast thrusts to stave off both their orgasms. He doesn't think he'd rather do anything else. Josh groans into his mouth, short, thick noises that almost sound like words.

Faris' head feels light with sex. “Did you say anything?” he asks, more a shallow breath than a real question.

“More,” Josh says back, right up into his mouth. “Do it more… Deeper.”

The very last syllable of _deeper_ already drowns in a needy moan when Faris obeys and sinks his cock down inside as deep as it will go. He lowers his head back to Josh's neck to lick the ticklish spot at the same time and turn the fuck-noise that comes out of Josh into a strange giggle.

“Your dick is _so big_ ,” Josh insists, a tone that's need as much as it's ache.

For a second, Faris gets dizzier still when he doesn't know where his blood is rushing to. He nuzzles deeper into Josh's soft shoulder and hums his appreciation, before he begins to pull back to repeat the motion. All the way until only the crown of his cock is still inside Josh, then back inside, again and again. Josh keens like a wounded animal, shaky once again like he's back on the verge of crying. Faris wants to shag his brains out.

His hands wander to Josh's kneepits to spread him wider, feet in the air so he can dick in deeper. When the angle changes again, it knocks the breath right out of him, when Josh's slick walls close in around his cock. Josh wails, too, but Faris only halfway hears it through what he realises too late is his own incoherent groan. He can't contain himself with Josh's scent overpowering him all over again, has to cut himself off by hiding his face in Josh's tacky collarbone.

“You're so weird.” Josh's voice comes out pressed and forced, laboured with fucking so Faris doesn't so much pay attention to the actual words. “The noises you make are so _weird_.”

Before Faris can protest, once it’s gotten through to him, Josh is already joining back in. His breath turns wet and shaky when Faris fucks in again, a deeper weight behind it this time.

“You’re the right person to say that,” Faris finally points out, but with his head still clouded by the pheromones, it probably doesn’t sound anything like that.

His fingers slip and fumble on the backs of Josh’s sweaty thighs when he keeps circling his hips, a slow pattern to make Josh yearn for it again. The muscles in his arms and hips pound with the knowledge he won’t be able to keep up for much longer, but at the same time, he’s well aware he won’t need to with the heat in his belly. Josh’s sticky, clingy walls keep him warm and fan that needy fire, and Faris remembers the sudden sensory rush of pushing in for the first time. More than that, he remembers Josh’s reaction.

“Why’d you…”

Whatever Josh was about to say, his whine cuts off at the point when Faris withdraws all the way, bellend pulsing against his swollen slit, and thrusts straight back in. Not balls-deep, not quite, but Faris feels submerged in that split second when he’s in as far as it’ll go. His trembly hands finally leave Josh’s legs to keep him from collapsing in ecstasy, and Josh’s gasp sounds about as incoherent and shaky as the overwhelm makes him feel in that second.

“Do that…”

Faris doesn’t have to be told to do it again. This time, he fucks Josh for a bit, relishes the sloppy squeeze on his dick and heightens the anticipation, before he pulls all the way out and pushes back inside once more. Out and back in, five times or ten times, but he doesn’t think he could count them if he tried it.

“I hate you,” Josh presses out when Faris pushes in with a particularly slow thrust. “I hate you so _fucking_ much.”

Faris’ reply gets lost in the grunt he releases into Josh’s hollow neck. He can feel Josh’s rapid heartbeat pumping through his jugular, can almost smell how worked up he is, and that bloodlust feeling drives him crazy all over again. More than that, he can feel how soaked Josh is, the runny clear juice that comes with fucking for ages, and can almost hear it as his cock slides in deeper. If he wasn’t sure he would come instantly at the sight, he’d cast his eyes downwards to be sure.

“Where d'you want me to come on you?” Faris asks with the next inward thrust. He’s concerned with how husky his voice has become at the same time he’s surprised it came out at all, and he's not going to make it much longer. That point-of-no-return ache is already creeping close, about time yet much, much too soon.

“Inside me,” Josh exhales, the words distinct in his shallow, oversexed breath. He forces Faris' head all the way back down into the crook of his neck where it's supposed to be. “I like it when you cum in me.”

    “Okay.”

    Faris feels he should’ve said more than just _Okay_ when he pushes back inside. Josh’s knuckles brush his belly once again when he rocks in and out, only the small difference between _all the way_ and _almost_ to keep them both on edge. He’d completely forgotten about that, and just as quickly he remembers the sweet spasm of Josh coming around him.

    “Keep touching yourself?”

    “Yeah,” Josh breathes back, and this time the hand in his hair pulls him upward. “Up here.”

    Faris lets his eyes drop shut when Josh yanks him in to connect their mouths once again. He doesn't dare to actually look at Josh's face at this point, desperate to drag out the final ecstatic part before it's over for as long as possible. Josh's mouth is sweet and hot underneath his, but not as hot as his cunt when Faris gently pumps in and out. His walls feel undone by now, front hole completely open and raw, and Faris knows it's going to hurt later.

    Whether the heady feeling overcoming him is pride or some transcending arousal, though, he has no idea. Faris feels in limbo, head gone blurry with being past the point-of-no-return but not _there_ yet, and Josh holds him too closely to change the pace or the angle now. All Faris can do is stave it off until they're both ready, but at the same time, he can smell Josh, hear Josh, even taste his sloppy mouth. A part of him wishes he could plug his ears, too, to make it a little less overwhelming. He tries to focus on his thrusts, fucking in and out regularly to keep the fire inside where it is, but as much as he tries, every thought spirals into Josh, _Josh Josh Josh Josh Josh_. Maybe that's what the feeling overcoming him is.

    Josh finally disconnects his mouth from Faris' to whisper in his ear. “I'm gonna…”

    Faris cuts him off. “Yeah…”

    He feels it when it happens, the twitch that turns into a spasm that turns into Josh's drippy hole sucking him in when he dicks deeper. Once more, Faris' head crumples down into the pheromone-heavy hollow of Josh's neck, and he would kiss Josh again to hide the groan that comes out. On the other hand, he couldn't miss the sound Josh makes when he comes for the third time.

    A heavy gasp, an, “Ah, F…” that could be for _Fuck_ or _Faris_ , and just as soon it degenerates into a series of quick inhales and exhales that's nearly an exasperated cackle. Faris has literally fucked Josh silly.

    He would laugh into Josh's heaving throat if his own orgasm didn't make the tears well up into his eyes again. As if all his nerve endings had been rewired into his cock, he twitches and comes and aches, collapsing around himself and onto Josh. His dick burns both with overwhelm and relief when the first few spurts pulse out, but Josh's pulpy walls contract too deeply for Faris to fuck them both through their peak. All he can do is lie there and let himself be milked of it, and he's sure he can feel Josh's heartbeat through his cunt as much as he can hear it in his chest.

    “Wow,” Josh finally whispers once he's regained his words.

    Faris isn't sure he's ready to speak just yet. His dick hurts now that it's gone soft, sore and overstimulated, and he can't even think how Josh's front hole and cock must feel. Around him, he thinks he can feel the jizz leaking back out already. Still, he makes no motion to pull off.

    “I can't even remember the last time I had sex like that.”

    “I don't think I've ever had sex like that,” Faris says back. His voice still sounds husky, but he thinks the words come out separately, at least.

    With one trembling hand, he strokes Josh's sweaty fringe away from his forehead, and he leans down for one more kiss. His whole body feels shaky, like all his energy went into that orgasm, but he thinks he likes that feeling.

    “With my boyfriend.”

    Josh says back, “Gross,” and leans up to lick his sweaty cheek.


	13. absence

Faris has always hated hospitals, a deep, primal hatred that goes back to well before he got the diagnosis. He lets Josh talk to the woman at the front desk, and on the elevator up to Harry’s ward he says as much.

“I've only ever been to a hospital to visit, like, twice, when my last two brothers were born.” With that statement he discounts all his routine blood tests, but to be fair, the only difference between those and a visit to his GP is the size of the building.

“But you never went to see your dad when he was at work?” Josh asks back.

“Only a few times when I was a kid,” Faris says. “But my dad cuts open brains for a living, when he's not sitting at his desk, so it's not really somewhere you'd bring a child. I don't really remember it either way.”

The elevator at St Mary's is spacious enough to fit one of those wheeled hospital beds, a big metal box, but the only other person on it is a nurse standing in the far corner. Faris avoids his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling, and he waits for Josh to ask the inevitable question. Harry's ward is at the top of the building, and the elevator ride is taking much too long.

Josh doesn't ask. He only looks at Faris with gentle understanding, over the bouquet of snapdragons he'd brought with him, like he's encouraging him to go on – or not.

“I just always thought it was really weird to be in the same building as people who are dead and dying and at the same time babies are born and everything. Just everything happening at once is really overwhelming and scary, in such a tiny enclosed space…”

Josh makes a tiny noise and leans in to squeeze Faris' hand when the elevator stops at the nurse's floor. Nobody gets on in her place.

“Did you ever look at those _Where's Wally_ books when you were a kid?”

When they were on the bus, he wasn't brave enough to reach out and take Josh's hand in public, but on the elevator with nobody to see he doesn't mind as much. Josh's hands are always much more calloused than what he would have expected, even though he hasn't moved his guitar from where he keeps it under the bed in ages, so much warmer than Faris' own.

“I found those books absolutely horrendous,” Faris deadpans.

Finally, the elevator reaches the ninth floor and stops with a ping. At least Josh knows where Harry's room is, so Faris needs to only let himself be dragged along without focussing on where they're going. St Mary's major trauma ward is located in the ugly brick and beige main building, but on the inside it looks precisely like every other hospital Faris has ever been to. More than anything it's white, white walls and white doors and stark white lighting, ugly slate-grey carpeting. The word clinical is appropriate, but Faris still feels more like he's in a sci-fi movie. Back on the psychiatric ward in Hull, they at least had blue curtains and potted plants, even if he once tried to pull a leaf from a succulent only to realise it was made from plastic.

Apparently Harry is staying in a single room, and Faris isn't sure whether that's reassuring or not when Josh tells him about it.

“What actually happened to her?” Faris asks. “Like, what's the reason she's staying here?”

“She has a broken leg and some major internal bleeding,” Josh explains as they walk up the corridor to her room, in a whisper even if all doors are closed and the two nurses walking in the opposite direction are wrapped up in their own conversation. “And some broken bones in her hand, but she's been having surgery for the bleeding, so she's recovering from that now.”

Faris doesn't know how to respond to that.

“And Rhys said her face is a bit busted up, too,” Josh adds. “Just so you know.”

Rhys had come to the ward every day since Tuesday, and they were probably already here since they'd taken the car from Chelsea.

The air here carries a smell of hand sanitiser that the air freshener can't overtone, not to mention a fainter smell of something Faris didn't think he would recognise: the sickly odour of weak bodies. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to the count of five, but that doesn't help in the least.

“Hey. Come here, Bird.”

Apparently, they've reached Harry's room, or at least they stopped walking. Josh pulls him into a sideways hug with both arms around his waist, careful not to squish the flowers. Faris leans in and drapes an arm around his shoulders in return. Once again, too often since last night, he lowers his head to kiss Josh's.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Faris' voice shakes when he says it. Before Josh can doubt him again, he adds, “I do want to see her, it's fine.”

“Okay,” Josh repeats.

He reaches out and knocks on the door. From inside distant voices can be heard, and it sounds like there's more people than just Rhys and Harry speaking. Only now Faris notices the sign next to the door, _ANGHARAD WEBB_ in blocky black letters.

The person who opens the door is a nurse with a long brown braid and black-framed glasses. Her dusky skin seems darker against her white scrubs and the white interiors, but with a sickly tint to it.

“Hello. We're here to see Harry,” Josh says, and he immediately corrects himself. “Miss Webb.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, but she's already got two bedside guests inside,” the nurse says. She smiles, and her teeth are pearly-white. “We only allow two visitors at a time on this ward.”

“We know,” Josh quickly says. “She's expecting me, me and Rhys said we wanted to come visit her together. We all live together, I'm her best friend.” He has a frighteningly angelic smile for the purpose of persuading people. “This is Faris, he's… It was supposed to be a surprise visit. I'm Josh.”

The nurse accepts when Josh reaches out his hand for her to shake, and the charms on her single bracelet dangle at her wrist. “I'm Priyanka, Nurse Khan. I'm in charge of handing out the medication on the ward today, but me and Angharad got a bit lost in conversation.” She laughs. “Lucky thing I was at the end of my route anyway.”

Josh, of course, immediately wraps Nurse Khan up in small talk, and Faris is left standing off to the side and wondering who the other visitor could be. Perhaps it's the room spray that blocks his nose, but he only now notices the other smell beneath the ethanol, one that's much more familiar.

When the nurse, Priyanka, is laughing at one of Josh's jokes, he butts in. “Sorry, not to be rude, but you're Vee, aren't you?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I actually am.”

“Me too,” Faris says, even though she's probably figured it out by now. Yet again, he doesn't know what else to say. “Where are you from?” Small talk.

Luckily he doesn't have to make conversation for much longer, because not a minute later the door opens and a girl steps out.

“Looks like you can go in now,” Priyanka says.

The girl seems to know Josh, since she nods at him and he raises a hand in return, but she doesn't stop to chat. Maybe it's because she's walking with much more confidence than the last time Faris saw her, or because she dyed a hair a different colour, but he only realises after she's walked past that he met her before. Her name was Lola if he remembers correctly, and he also realises something he couldn't have possibly noticed the last time he saw her.

A little he finds it strange to realise how many other Vampires surround him, two he's run into just now and so many, many more on any busy street or the bus. Even the woman who shared her water with him at Pride must have been Vee, in retrospect, one of the million of Vampires in London. Faris remembers moving from Hull to London for uni and the realisation that he could go out onto the street and see tons of people who looked like him now, other people who were brown. This time, however, it doesn't comfort him in the least.

–

The window in Harry's room faces exactly where the sun is shining behind the cover of clouds, a bright light that doesn't carry any heat with it. On the windowsill the bouquets are already lining up, and Rhys has to rearrange them to fit the snapdragons in their little vase on there.

“They're really pretty,” Harry says with her matted voice. “Thank you.”

She sounds far-away, maybe from the pain medication she's still on, but not at all dead inside or shaken up. The room only has two chairs in it, and Faris offered to sit on the corner of the bed before Rhys gave up their seat for him instead.

“Picked them out all by myself,” Josh says, and he reaches out to squeeze Faris' hand again. Faris has been counting fives since they walked into the room, but the sudden touch forces him to start over. “So, how was your interview?”

Harry exhales out a long groan, but it sounds strange.

“I haven't watched it yet,” Josh adds. “Just wanted to know if I should, if it's actually worthwhile content.”

“Don't bother,” Harry says, and she shakes her head. “The filming was okay, but Rhys let me stream it on their phone as soon as they published it.”

“That bad?”

“Pretty much.”

The bouquets on the window have filled the room with a much more natural cloud of florals, even if it's still not strong enough to mask the stench of hospital. At the very least they add a spot of colour to the room; Faris can recognise the sunflowers, purple iris, yellow daffodils, and obviously the multi-coloured snapdragons. Someone even brought in a bunch of pink roses. Other than the flowers, the only thing in the room that isn't white is Harry's orange pyjama top.

“You look really nice, by the way,” Faris says. “Your make-up.”

Harry is wearing her usual look, the nude smoky eye with the shimmer that makes her eyes pop, but below her eyes, her face looks very different from the usual.

“Aw, thank you. The nurse did it for me this morning, 'cause my painkillers make my hand really shaky.”

Faris still has the pictures of his nose from when he broke it, like it had been dislocated and pushed towards one side, but Harry’s looks more like it's been snapped in half, a huge crack in the line of it. Next to it, one side of her face has caved, no cheekbone to support the skin.

“She did a good job,” Faris honestly says.

“Your nurse wouldn't even let us in when we first showed up,” Josh adds. “She said you had too many visitors in right now.”

Harry laughs. She's sitting with her back propped up by the adjustable bed and her leg in the cast supported by a pillow, hands on the duvet. One hand is also covered in a cast, only the thumb and pointer finger exposed, just as Josh had said. “Priyanka's not actually that strict, I think she's really nice. She's always saying I'm like a celebrity, I'm the most important patient she's had yet.”

Maybe the painkillers are pushing her up, but in that moment Harry doesn't look anything like a kidnapping victim restricted to a hospital bed. Without the broken bones and the bruises on her arms she seems precisely like a normal girl, and for the first time Faris doesn't feel uncomfortable sitting across from her.

“She probably didn't let you in 'cause Lola and us were talking business,” Rhys says from their perch on the edge of the bed, next to Harry's intact leg. “Did Josh tell you about that yet?”

Faris takes a split second to realise he's being spoken to. “I don't think so.”

“Rhys has been training some of our regulars to help run the shop while Harry's in recovery,” Josh explains. “Including their twinky ex-boyfriend.”

Faris doesn't know if he should question the _ex_ prefix.

“I think I'll be back working the shop in a week at the latest,” Harry says. “My reconstructive surgery on my face is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so I'll probably be discharged Wednesday, but I won't be able to work as much, obviously.”

“And you're gonna need someone to replace me,” Josh adds.

In the four weeks that Faris didn't contact him, Josh applied for a tech support phone line job in Shoreditch. He's not starting until September, but he'll make eleven quid an hour when he does, and he's looking for a flatmate so he can move into a real room with windows soon.

“You know I already offered Josh's job to both Joe and Lola, 'cause they're both friends of BedMates who need employment right now, but if you're still looking, obviously I also said that I'd prioritise giving the job to you,” Rhys says.

This time Faris immediately knows it's directed towards him, but he doesn't have time to say that he'd consider it; Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. Apparently, nobody else expected the knock either, because all their heads fly up at the same time.

The second knock comes slightly louder.

“It's open, come in,” Harry calls.

Faris immediately recognises the person whose head pokes inside, even if she's not wearing sunglasses this time. He seems to be the only one who does, though.

“Hello?” Harry says, but her voice sounds light and fragile this time.

The room feels like there’s not enough air inside before Rachel even walks in.

“Harry, hi,” she says. “I don't know if you remember this, but I came to your play party a few months ago…”

“I do remember that, I think,” Rhys says in place of Harry. “You were the one who messaged me on Facebook about privacy issues, Cat, isn't it?”

“You can say Rachel.”

Josh apparently remembers her now, because he elbows Faris and wiggles his eyebrows. Faris winks at him in return.

“Rachel, okay.”

“Yeah.”

A little, it seems uncomfortable that Rachel should be the only one standing among them, and Rhys now asks, “Would you like a seat?”

“I don't really want to stick around, your room's already kind of crowded.” Rachel awkwardly laughs. With her striped shirt and denim jacket instead of the all-black and heels, she loses a lot of the intimidation she radiated the first two times Faris met her. “I heard about what happened from your sibling's – Rhys' Facebook post. I've always been too busy to come see you until now, I'm really just here to drop this off.”

Her fingers fumble with opening her big leather handbag, and she produces a tin of Quality Street.

In the exact same voice with the same inflection, Harry says, “Thank you,” like it's something she's repeated a lot in the past few days.

“Sorry if it's weird for me of all people to give you chocolates, 'cause obviously we barely know each other and all…”

Harry cuts her off. “No, no, it's fine.”

Faris feels it would be impolite to start a separate conversation with Josh in such a small enclosed space, or to occupy himself with his phone for that matter. He only reaches for Josh's hand to grasp it again.

“I've gotten so many gifts from regular customers since I came here, I love it, but everyone's just giving me flowers. You're the first person to bring me chocolate.”

The two women go into casual small-talk, and Faris zones out to focus on Josh's warm hand inside and around his, Josh's head that nudges back onto his shoulder. Josh cackles, low and hidden in his throat, and Faris rubs the soft skin that connects his thumb to the rest of his hand.

“Clingy,” he says into Josh's hair.

“Nothing wrong with that.” Josh headbutts him again and says, “Not my fault you weren't here for me to bug you for so long.”

At that Faris laughs, if only a quiet laugh he won't let out of his mouth. Harry, leaving all injuries aside, still looks remarkably normal, more so when she laughs at something Rachel says. Rhys looks normal, too, any trace of the husk of a person they were a few weeks ago completely gone.

He thinks back to his time on the ward, or specifically the other patients he met there. Faris was seventeen-and-a-half when he was admitted, half a year off from being sent to the _adult_ therapy group. Several of the kids he'd met at the under-eighteens had been victims of traumatic events much like Rhys and Harry, and he remembers one of them in particular: The youngest girl in the group, ten or eleven, and the only other brown person at group therapy. Faris remembers she had her hair in two plaits, thick brows and deep-black eyes with a look in them like she was charred on the inside.

“Faris? Chocolate?”

He's ripped out from his thoughts when Josh elbows him again and he realises the noise he just heard was a tin's worth of Quality Street bouncing in their foil packaging. Rachel is holding the purple drum of chocolates out towards both of them, and he fishes out one of the orange ones. She's got black eyes, too, but hers are sparkly even when she's wearing barely any make-up.

“Cheers,” Faris says, but he makes no motion to unwrap the chocolate.

Rachel turns back to chat with Harry and Rhys again, something about that fetish club she attends, or at least that's what Faris thinks she's chatting about.

“You okay?” Josh quietly asks, and he strokes the inside of Faris' thumb.

“Was just distracted,” Faris says back.

He'd like to kiss Josh, but maybe not in this moment and in this room. For the second that things had felt normal, like time had been turned back inside the room, he almost felt comfortable.

Josh says, “Okay,” and leans over to kiss Faris on the cheek.

Faris beams on the inside, a warmth that starts at his throat and goes right up to his face. If it's an actual blush, at least nobody would be able to see it.

“By the way, Rachel,” he says next, fingers fumbling at the foil of the chocolate to keep himself occupied. His voice sounds unexpectedly deep.

Rachel turns back around from her conversation with Harry. “Yeah?” she asks. Her voice is just as bright and friendly as she looks in that moment. For her to have ever made him nervous is hard to imagine, not that it makes what Faris is about to say seem any less terrifying.

“You were completely right with what you'd said, the first time I met you.” He pauses for a second to put his chocolate in his mouth, and to wait for the gears in her head to turn. A little he's surprised how much easier those words came out compared to the ones before. “I actually turned out to be a Vampire.”

He smiles to show off the gaps in his teeth, and Rachel smiles back with her odd fang.

“See, I'm never wrong.”

–

“I think it's important in dire hours like this to not pin the blame on whatever marginalised group is cool to hate at the moment,” Harry says lying in her hospital bed. “For instance, I don't think it's okay to simply stereotype my attackers as having been Vampires or Muslims, just because of the supposed resurgence in Vampiric terrorism and the scaremongering surrounding the refugee crisis.”

Maybe it's the resolution of Faris' phone screen or the brightness settings, but she looks much worse in the video than she did earlier today. Like in a pretentious movie, the framing while she talks is very precise and symmetrical, without the interviewer visible, although it has the interesting side effect of making Harry look like she's giving the Queen's speech at Christmas.

“As a matter of fact I don't want to pin the blame on any group, 'cause I never actually got to see any of my captors.”

Rachel really didn't stick around for long. She left the hospital after giving Faris recommendations for blood dispensaries and Vee-owned businesses, which didn't seem particularly helpful, and after slipping him her number. Rhys had some work around the shop left to get done, too, new orders to sort in and packages to pack, so they soon said goodbye with a hug and a kiss on the cheek for each of them.

Josh and Faris stuck around until visitation hours ended at eight, though, and at that point Nurse Khan was forced to kick them out. Well, they did sneak downstairs and around the corner to grab McDonalds and some sugary Starbucks drinks, but other than that, they both sat at the edge of the bed, Faris half in Josh's lap, and chatted about whatever came to mind. Josh pulled up videos on his phone to show Harry and insisted on dipping his chips into Faris' caramel Frappuccino, but more often than not, he kept one hand linked with Faris' own.

At one point they decided to tell the story of how it happened, although Josh mainly heckled while Faris actually told the story. _It happened_ , what a vague nondescript way of putting it, but then, maybe they were boyfriends long before that. In retrospect Faris even found himself laughing at his own idiocy multiple times, even if he did flush deeply when Josh pulled him into a kiss and Harry _aww_ ed at them.

Now, after they got the bus back to East London and Josh alighted four stops earlier, and after Faris bought himself a kebab for dinner, he's lying in bed with Harry's interview for Vice pulled up on his phone. She told him earlier that she’d refused to speak to the BBC or any major newspapers so far, but Vice did a feature on BedMates a few years earlier, so she figured there would be a chance they'd get some publicity out of it. _You have to take what you can get_ , she said with a wink.

Harry on the screen says in response to a question Faris didn't catch, “There was no escape or ransom paid or anything dramatic like that. They let me free on what was early Tuesday morning, before the sun had come up.” She exhales at that point, and it sounds like she'd forgotten to breathe with what she was saying. What she says next, in contrast to her previous hollow monotone, sounds almost defensive. “I don't know why they did it.”

Faris instinctively tenses up. Tonight is relatively mild, but he's sleeping naked with the sheets in a pile at the bottom of the bed. The air feels sweaty, and still he can't keep the goosebumps from crawling up his back as he keeps watching.

“What do you mean by that?” the interviewer asks. It's a woman with a smooth, deep voice, but her face still isn't visible.

“I mean what I said,” Harry says. “They broke my leg before they pushed me out of their car. Maybe they thought I'd succumb to my injuries there, since I had a lot of internal bleeding.” Her eyes flicker away from the camera. “As you can see, I didn't.”

At that point Faris closes out of the video. Whatever comes after that, he doesn't want to see it or hear it. He reaches down to pull the duvet up to his chest, even if he knows that he'll discard it in his sleep sooner or later. Harry said she’d cried as soon as she finished filming, and after she watched the interview, too, but for a very different reason that time.

_It felt like they were trying to use me for an agenda, like a propaganda video. I'm just not sure for what._

She didn't want to give them any details, any fuel to the fire, that's what she said, and she hadn't. Still, Faris' mouth hurts with how tight his throat has become, and so he goes to text Josh goodnight and switches off the bedside light.

A few minutes later, his phone lights up with a text where he'd put it on the night table.

_your gay but goodnight XXXX_ , followed by the sparkling heart emoji.

–

Faris wakes up at 6.58 the next morning. Outside, the sun is already cutting stripes of light through his blinds and onto his walls, and he winds out of the tangle of sheets he’d gotten himself into and reaches for his bottle of water.

He didn’t fall asleep for ages after sending that goodnight text, not with every concern he might have had arising at once now that he was alone with his thoughts. Faris hasn’t had a prescription to sleeping pills since sixth form, for obvious reasons, and grabbing his phone from the night table to boot up Netflix didn’t help in the least. Finally, he washed down a Clonazepam after five X-Files episodes, which at least shut his brain up once it hit, but it didn’t let him fall asleep either.

Still, he swallows his meds now and disables his alarm before it can go off, and he finds a clean t-shirt and a pair of pants and wanders off into the bathroom. Piss, brush teeth, shower, shave, strange how the autopilot switches back on after he’d spent so much time with no reason to wake up in the morning. The major difference from his craft supply shop job is that he doesn’t start work until ten-thirty today.

James is still sitting at the kitchen table when Faris walks in and grabs the bacon from the fridge.

“Morning,” he says.

James presumably does not look up from his granola, but with his back turned to the kitchen table Faris can’t be certain.

“You’re up early.”

Faris hums a noise of vague affirmation. He cracks two eggs into the frying pan before he adds the bacon, and after a second of consideration he goes back to the fridge and throws a fistful of shredded cheddar into the scramble. The cheese is James’s according to the post-it note attached, but it’s not like James would eat that much cheese by himself. Briefly, Faris considers telling him about his new job, but quickly decides against it. No need to make things too complicated.

There’s two floppy slices of white bread left in his side of the pantry, so he tosses them into the toaster. Maybe he should crack open a can of beans since he doesn’t have any other components that would make it a proper fry-up. Faris has thought about this conversation extensively, as extensively and rationally as he possibly could when his nerves left him unable to sleep until three AM. James is least likely to be confrontational when he needs to leave for work soon, and he wasn’t out drinking last night so he’s unlikely to be cranky this morning. Besides, Faris is sure that the last few times he brought a bird back, it was the same girl every time.

Faris heaps his scrambled egg onto the first slice of bread and garnishes it with rashers and barbecue sauce before he sets the second slice atop. Not the most dignified breakfast he’s made for himself, but it’s on a plate, and it’s warm, both a huge plus. He thinks back to what his old therapist told him before he moved for uni, every small accomplishment matters. Every little helps, although that’s a slogan for a supermarket.

When he’s taken the chair opposite from James, Faris asks, “So, how’ve you been?”

James is a slow eater. Today, he's wearing a button-up blue shirt, the kind that's white and dark blue weaved together to give the appearance of a lighter shade. He finally looks up when Faris is taking his first bite from his sandwich. The egg threatens to slop out from the bottom, and he has to squeeze the bread tighter to keep it all inside.

“I’ve been good, cheers.”

Faris chews his scramble and already begins to regret putting that much cheese into it. After he swallows down the bite, he says, “That's good.” Small talk.

James keeps on scrolling along his phone and shoves another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Faris thinks it's the berry kind. He gets his phone out again and pulls up that game with the shapes. Now they're equal, both looking at their phones, so he feels a lot more comfortable with saying his line that he rehearsed to himself over and over last night, and in the shower and in front of the mirror this morning.

“I just wanted to let you know that you need to start looking for a new flatmate.”

Faris raises his gaze just in time to see James' reaction. When it comes to facial expression, James can be just as laconic as he is, like right now. His thick brows rise slowly in a manner Faris cannot place.

“I know it's very short notice,” he adds. “I can pay next month's rent for you, if you like, but I'm moving out at the end of this month.”

James has returned to looking down at whatever he's reading on his phone. At some point when Faris wasn't paying attention, he's shovelled more granola into his mouth, so Faris returns to his sandwich as well.

The room remains quiet as they eat. Faris has never paid attention to the noise it makes when he chews, but if it always sounds like that he's prepared to never eat solid food again. Still, he finishes the sandwich and then picks the bits of egg that have fallen out from his plate, and he switches to his Facebook feed. No one is sharing news of something horrible that happened overnight, which is already relief enough. He skims an article about Vee rights in South America but can’t gather enough focus to actually read it.

Finally, James finishes eating. Faris watches him get up and scrub his bowl in the sink. When he's placed it off to the side to drip dry, James says, “Alright, then. I’ll see you later on.”

Then, he leaves, presumably to go to work. The clock on Faris' phone says it's eight twenty-four. Faris doesn't even need to leave for two more hours.

–

BedMates opens at eleven o'clock, but Rhys asked him to come in early for his first day at work to explain the basic workings.

“We've got some new orders in today, so it'd be great if you could restock the shelves both in the front and in the back room and then package up our online orders,” Rhys says after they've shown him the register and the login for the shop email. “I don't expect you'll have to interact with customers a lot since we're not usually busy on Mondays, but if you like you can rearrange our demo model display too to show off some of the newer toys.”

Faris says, “Cool.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Faris glances down at the brand new name tag pinned to his chest, BedMates pink with black letters. Underneath his name, it says _JUNIOR STAFF_ , which Faris supposes he is, no years-long experience of selling dildos to people. “I'm not nervous or anything.”

“Cool,” Rhys repeats, and they step forward for a hug.

Today, they're wearing one of their blouse-y paisley shirts, and it feels just as silky in his arms as it looks. Once again, Faris doesn't want to let go, even content with inhaling their persistent cloud of perfume. Maybe, possibly, he lied about not being nervous.

As if they somehow sensed it, Rhys pulls away and beams one of their impossibly bright smiles up at him. “I'm sure you'll do great, don't worry about it.”

Two hours later, Faris has packed up and labelled thirty online orders, complete with printed out invoices. He's stacked approximately eighty boxes of assorted sex toys into assorted shelves, both in the backroom and the showroom, and he's even rang up his first handful of customers: one middle-aged gay couple looking to get into bondage and three women that must have been around the same age, buying two vibrators and one strap-on and lube, respectively, and a nervous young guy who was buying his first butt plug. Faris is checking for new orders when Josh comes in with his ridiculous sunglasses perched on his nose.

Rhys is currently advising a young woman with braids on different types of lube, but Josh easily squeezes past them. Faris realises that he's carrying two deep-brown paper coffee cups when he approaches the counter.

“Hey dickhead,” Josh says as he plants the cups next to the register.

“Hey,” Faris says back, and when Josh leans in for a peck on the cheek, he accepts.

“How's my newest co-worker’s first day going?”

“You don't technically work here.”

Faris opens one of three new emails and begins to copy the order into the invoice template. His fingers clack rhythmically on the keys, five, ten, fifteen, twenty.

“ _Two-in-One One-in-Two Vibrating Strapless Strap-On_ ,” Josh reads out. “Thirty-five quid.”

Faris reaches out and pinches Josh’s thigh, which does nothing to deter him.

“ _Silk Bondage Rope, twenty feet_. Twelve quid. _Non-Latex Condoms Extra Thin, twelve pack_. Fifteen quid.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Faris insists, more out of a desire to bicker than true concern for professionalism.

Josh decides to go the obvious way and shuts himself up by going in for a kiss again, only this time, he moves his head the wrong way and his shades knock straight into Faris' face.

“Take those glasses off.”

Josh snorts. “Sorry.” He reaches up and fixes them in his hair instead, which doesn't do much to make him look _less_ ridiculous. “I brought you a coffee, by the way. Got something a little extra in it.”

Josh reaches for the right paper cup, the one without the teabag string dangling from under the lid, and hands it over to Faris. Maybe it's the bright, clean light of the shop, but Faris only now recognises the Red Room logo embossed onto the cup. The distinct metallic note beneath the coffee and whipped cream confirms it when he holds it up to his nose. Without meaning to, Faris twists his brow.

“You shouldn't have,” he says, even if he brings the cup up to sniff again before he can help himself. “How much did you pay for this?”

“It's fine,” Josh insists, and to underline his point, he presses himself deeper into Faris' side.

He reaches for his cup, presumably with milk and two sugars, and pulls off the lid to remove the teabag and drop it in the bin. The tea is still steaming, and he only takes a sip after holding it up to his face for a few seconds.

“That place is really weird from the inside,” he says then.

“It's basically just a normal coffee shop,” Faris says back, “If you ignore the bit where everything they sell is really expensive.” He decides to give in and take a sip from his coffee, black with whipped cream on top the way he likes it.

“It's so _dark_ in there,” Josh insists. “And the staff are really condescending.”

“That's true, the staff are rude.” The blood gives the coffee a sweet note, much like adding sugar but richer. “I've only really been in there once.”

Josh makes a noise into his drink. “But their tea is really good.”

Faris doesn't know what else to say, so he contents himself with sipping his drink again and going back to the online orders. Josh's body is so warm next to his, his hair frizzy with the static cling of blow-drying and the lemon Lynx shampoo smell still sticking to it.

“ _Whip It Good Vegan Leather Spanking Paddle_ ,” Josh reads out. “Forty-five quid. _Bondage Basics Breathable Silicone Ball Gag…_ ”

“Boys?” Rhys' voice with its inexplicable sing-song interrupts him before he can get to the price, ten pounds.

“Sorry, Boss,” Josh says with a ridiculously toothy smile.

“Good morning, Joshua.”

“Sorry,” Faris adds.

“Faris, could you ring up Dara, please?”

The woman with braids passes over what she's got in her hands, a bullet vibrator and a dispenser of water-based lube. Faris rings her up.

“That'll be twenty pounds, please. Would you like a bag?”

When she's left, after Faris has dropped a flyer for the next Sleepover and a leftover rainbow heart sticker into her bag, Rhys comes to sit behind the counter with them.

“So,” they say.

“Sorry about that, again,” Faris repeats. Despite the fact that it was Josh they caught misbehaving at work, he feels strangely guilty about it.

“Don't mention it.” Rhys gestures for him to hand them the laptop. “Could you pass me my MacBook? Cheers.” They begin to tap around on both the keyboard and the mouse, and at the same time, they keep chatting. “So, I don't think you were here when I first brought this up to Haz, but we were thinking about expanding the BedMates brand, to start hosting events other than Sleepovers, you know?”

Faris nods and makes a sound of affirmation, but he doesn't think Rhys even waited for him to react.

They only continue chatting. “Obviously we know that Sleepover is a very vanilla event, so it's by default not very inclusive of queer folks who are into kink. But I've been chatting to your friend who's got experience with the scene, you know, Racquel?”

“Rachel,” Faris corrects.

“Rachel, right, sorry,” Rhys says. The whole time that they speak, their fingers don't stop moving, and their eyes flit between the screen and Faris and Josh. “She messaged me again last night, about whether we'd be interested in collaborating with one of those fetish nights she goes to?”

“Carnival of Sins,” Faris automatically fills in.

“Probably,” Rhys says, and their voice now carries that bubbly tone they only get into when they're truly excited about something. “We're considering a night that's mostly focussed on meeting like-minded folks, so no big dungeon set-up, no fetish wear, snacks and drinks, maybe some music, a live band…”

“Gay BDSM band,” Josh cuts in, and it's obviously intended to be a joke.

“There's a niche for everything,” Faris says back and sips his coffee again. Upon consideration, he adds, “I'm pretty sure _gay BDSM band_ is just a different way of saying _Depeche Mode_.”

When Rhys really gets into a topic, they do this thing where they keep on prattling as if they'd rehearsed an entire monologue and don't even react to any interjections. Now, they say, “Yeah, I'm not an expert obviously, but Rachel is, and she's got connections that go much beyond _well, we're not into it but we reviewed one of your parties once_ , she's helped organise multiple nights now.”

Faris once again says, “Cool,” unsure whether or not he’s expected to contribute anything to this conversation.

“So we're thinking, we know it's very short notice, but we'd maybe do the first one on the Sunday before the bank holiday next weekend, 'cause that's when the next Carnival is supposed to be on as well,” Rhys continues. “We don't have a venue yet, or anything, but it's, you know, it's fingers crossed.”

They reach for the bag of chocolates they keep just under the counter and unwrap one to pop into their mouth. “I've got a good feeling about this.”

At that exact moment, the bell above the door rings, and they place the laptop on the counter and stand up from their chair.

“Hi, welcome to BedMates,” Rhys chirps at the customer, a man with rusty-red hair.

Faris squeezes Josh's hand again to distract himself from the thought that's crept up on him in that moment. He watches Rhys lead the customer over to the demo models, the front-right corner of the room behind the display window and outside his field of vision. What they said in that Facebook post was true, Harry truly was their rock, the more reasonable, stable sibling.

“Hey.” Josh asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Faris leans his head onto Josh's shoulder again, and he reaches for his cooling coffee cup. “I was just thinking that I miss Harry.”

“I miss her too. Obviously.” Josh wrinkles his nose with an audible sniff, and he says, “That smells so gross. Your food does.”

Almost as if he's hesitant to speak the word out loud, _blood_ , but Faris chooses to not say anything.

He does find it strange to be back in the routine of hanging out behind the counter at BedMates but without Harry there. Now that he's thought about it, the whole morning has had a hole in it, a subtle but crushing emptiness, and suddenly Faris finds it hard to swallow.

He coughs twice, and then another three times, and Josh stares at him with big eyes.

“Alright?”

Faris says, “Choked on my coffee.”

“Dickhead,” Josh chides him, and he kisses Faris on the cheek. Faris fishes his phone from his pocket. His heart feels like it's beating too quickly and too slowly all at once.

Finally, when Faris has rung up the ginger man who was buying a dildo, Rhys sits back down at their spot behind the counter. Briefly, Faris wonders if they can see it, whether his face is drained of blood the way it feels.

“Sorry about that,” Rhys says and beams. “Really lovely guy, too bad he had to show up just now.” They reach for the Macbook again and eat a second chocolate, and they ask, “So what do you guys think, BedMates branded kink events?”

Almost in unison, Faris and Josh reply, “Cool.”

–

The nightmare is over before Faris can recognise it as one. The dark of his room is blurry when he opens his eyes, darker with the blinds drawn. Everything is in shades of grey, the time of night when nothing has a colour. His heart races as he winds away from the wall to reach for his bottle of water and a Clonazepam, but his limbs are sluggish still despite the naked panic that sits on his back and makes the hairs at his nape stand on end.

Faris inhales and exhales frantically, his head too empty and too heavy all at the same time, as if the solution to that was to fill it with as much oxygen as possible. He hasn't had nightmares since before the ward and even now his memories are already turning blotchy and patchy. Maybe that's the worst part of bad dreams, the primal fear of something he doesn't even know that sticks around after he wakes up.

Deep breaths. Faris tries to count them, one, two, three, four, five, but they come too quickly no matter how much he wills them not to. Again, that rushed feeling of his heartbeat being _off_ sits in his chest, but this time it's out of something ingrained much deeper. Inhale, he counts to five while holding the breath in his lungs. A long exhale, to the count of five. Repeat. Faris is intimately aware that he can't feel his own heart rate anymore, a lack of comforting routine.

Heartbeats, breaths, the whole human body works as a routine, a ritual, a compulsion. The empty sockets of his teeth ache, but not as much as his wrists and the old scars on his thighs itch.

He needs water. Faris sits up as good as he can, but when he pushes himself off the mattress with one arm, his hand meets a warm lump instead.

“Faris?” the lump asks, voice heavy and nasal with sleep. He'd completely forgotten that Josh was there.

“Shit, sorry.” The words come out too frantic, but Faris is surprised that they came out at all.

Josh reaches one arm out of bed and flicks the light switch. With the yellow of the bedside lamp behind him, his skin takes on a weird, blurry glow. Maybe Faris should put on his glasses.

“Are you okay?” Josh lays one warm hand over Faris' bare chest where all the parts are working overtime to keep him breathing and conscious. “You're, like, hyperventilating.”

“I had a night terror,” Faris says. _Night terror_ , a strange word, but in this moment, it fits. “Give me my benzos.”

He takes two pills at once, and when he washes them down the water spills from the side of his mouth and down to the sheets. His throat is so parched he can feel the whole gulp sliding down his gullet pipe. In a strange placebo-like twist, he instantly feels soothed.

“Babe,” Josh's blurry face says, eyes turned into black panda spots by the liner and gunk around them. His hair is flat with sex and sleep, and his voice has turned small with something Faris can't place.

“Can you pass me my glasses?”

Faris never wears his old coke-bottle frames anymore, since they make him look more like a strange bird than he normally does. Still, he keeps them on his desk right next to the saline solution for his contacts. As soon as he's put them on, the bedroom looks much more corporeal.

Josh has become much more corporeal too, naked down to his belly where the sheets pool around him. Now Faris can determine that emotion that's gotten into his voice, now that he can actually see Josh's eyes. Fear. Not the same primal prickly fear that the night terror brought with it, but a softer one that's much closer to pity.

Faris knows that particular cocktail of emotions, remembers it from his first girlfriend and one night when he'd had too much to drink and they got into an argument. What he said that night, he never remembered, but he remembers her face and the shame, the same shame that attaches itself heavy to his back now.

“Thank you,” he says, and this time his voice sounds normal. Slow and low and even, Faris never really considered his voice _normal_ , but if nothing else, he sounds like himself.

“It's fine,” Josh says back. He gestures for Faris to hand him the bottle, and Faris watches him take a huge swig as well.

“Sorry.” Faris wants to close the gap, wants to sit pressed tight next to Josh and hear his heartbeat, but he doesn't know if he can.

“Don't apologise.” Josh slides back under the sheets, and he pats the mattress. “Come lie back down.”

Faris obediently folds himself down to lie across from Josh. In this light he looks deeply sated, darker than the tan that was beginning to appear on his arms and cheeks. For a second Faris thinks the bedside lamp is enough to conceal the difference in colour between them, until he stretches out one arm to link hands with Josh as well.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Josh smiles and the light turns his teeth yellow. “Feel better yet?”

Faris doesn't know. “Not really.” The panic has ebbed off, replaced by a raw exhaustion, but the very essence of fear still sticks with him, in his muscles and the space below his lungs, tucked into his diaphragm.

Josh's fingers are much stronger and thicker than his. When they squeeze down, Faris feels fragile, but not in a bad way.

“You want to tell me what you dreamed about?”

“I dreamed I killed my flatmate.”

That’s the bare-bones idea of it, all he can remember. As soon as Faris has said it, that fragile feeling becomes much worse. Like something inside just cracked, he feels like the broken shell of a strange animal with the tender insides raw and exposed.

Josh only blinks, the same way Holly blinked whenever the nastier parts of Faris’ brain problems bubbled to the surface. Of course Josh knows about the intrusive thoughts, but only those that focus on Faris' own body, on opening up the old cuts or adding new cuts or slamming himself into the pavement.

Faris blinks back, five times in a row. “I mean, I didn't physically kill him. I had a dream he was dead but I knew it was my fault. I knew they were gonna arrest me.” He rubs the soft flesh by Josh's thumb, and he doesn't know what else to say.

“Okay,” Josh says back. “I've a question. Don't get mad.”

“Ask me, then.”

Faris has always found the habit strange, of asking people to not get mad _before_ posing the question.

“D'you sometimes get, like… blood lust? Like the urge to feed?”

Faris frowns. He loosens his grip from Josh's hand, but Josh won't let him go.

“I said don't get mad, please.”

“It's a stupid question.”

Faris turns just a fraction, suddenly uncomfortable by the way his ribs and hipbones are resting on the mattress. His room's been empty since he and James moved in, never bothered with hanging up posters or fairy lights or anything like that. Right now, in the half-dark of the night table light, the walls above them seem cavernous but barren, different from how Red Room felt like a womb.

“But…” Faris says then.

“I'm sorry,” Josh says.

“In general, as Vampires? We don't.” He says, “The CBHS gives you a hunger for blood, but not a desire to hurt others.” That sentence is taken almost word-for-word from the NHS website or some Vampire Humanity group's, he thinks. “You remember what happened with your cousin at that birthday party?”

“My cousin's boyfriend,” Josh corrects. “Ex-boyfriend.”

“Yeah, him.”

“He was such a dick.”

Faris says, “When I smelled the blood… I wanted to drink it really badly.” He looks down at Josh's big cylindrical nose, the same faking-eye-contact trick. His hand squeezes Josh's tighter again. “I never would've wanted to bite him or harm him, even if he'd deserved it. I only saw all the blood, and it was just flowing out from him, I could've just licked it off.”

Even in the yellow, Josh's face has gone pale again.

“Sorry,” Faris says, his voice suddenly dropped down to a whisper. “I forgot you're afraid of blood.”

“It's fine,” Josh whispers back. Faris strokes the back of his hand, where the skin is softer than in his calloused palms. The moment is so tender that speaking in any other volume would simply be inappropriate. “Come here.”

Faris closes the already small distance between them. He wraps his arms around Josh's waist and doesn't even dread the inevitable point when one of them will go numb beneath Josh's weight.

Josh hums into the hollow of Faris' throat. His skin is unimaginably warm, and Faris doesn't know whether that's only his increased sensitivity to heat. Again, he thinks about hot water bottles, and he laughs where he's nuzzled into Josh's sweaty hair.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing. You're warm.”

Faris listens for the thump of Josh's heart, steady like a metronome. He counts five, ten, fifteen, and he waits for his own heartbeat to adjust itself to the rhythm. Neither of them make any motion to switch the light back off.

In that moment of tranquil, the same hollow feeling from the other day comes back into Faris' throat, a sort of pre-emptive guilt. He shuts his eyes and inhales Josh's scent deeper, his sweat and conditioner and hairspray and even the Lynx, Josh's own earthy, familiar scent, and he hopes it'll soothe his nerves. Aromatherapy or however they call it. Faris holds on tight, Josh's body as his solid anchor in the emptiness.

Finally, Josh makes a noise, so soft it could've been a snore. His breath isn’t near even enough for him to have gone back to sleep.

“Josh?” Faris whispers, anxious to possibly scare him up. “Did you say something?”

“I said, _ouch_.” Josh's fingers come to wrap around the inside of Faris' biceps and pull his arm loose. “You're crushing me.”

“Sorry.”

Faris leans down to kiss Josh on the forehead. He doesn't look like he's been asleep at all in the however-long time frame that they were both silent.

“I'm hungry.”


	14. healing

They creep into the kitchen after Faris got redressed in his shirt from yesterday and his trackies and Josh pulled on a pair of pants and Faris' messy painting t-shirt. After they had dinner with Rhys, they walked the way back to Faris' building, but Josh insisted they take the detour over to Tesco to buy some actual food. Now, as the red LED clock on the oven blinks 3:25, which is five times five times thirteen, that turned out to be a really good idea.

They cook two frozen pizzas, one with pepperoni and one with mushrooms, and Josh cracks open a can of cider from the fridge. Faris wrinkles his nose at the smell of alcohol and sour fruit combined.

“I can't believe you live like this sometimes,” Josh says. The pizza is a bit undercooked, the crust floppy, so he folds his slice in half before taking a huge bite. “Like, you don't have any food.”

Faris shrugs. “I forget a lot of the time.”

“But you do still need to eat food. Right?”

“I do still need to eat food,” Faris repeats. He's not truly hungry, but still he picks a pepperoni from one of his slices, and after some consideration he picks up the rest of the piece of pizza, too. “And I do have food, it's just packaged air-tight and stackable.”

To be fair, Faris bought his collection of Pot Noodles in the cupboard when he was still at uni and living off meals he could make with an electric kettle, and he likes to think he's got a bit more dignity than that now. Only a bit.

Josh snorts. “You're a disaster.”

He leans over for a kiss before Faris can say anything, and Faris accepts, even with both their mouths stained by grease. At this time of morning, even more after getting out of a bed heated by two bodies, the kitchen is chilly, but Josh, still, continues to radiate warmth.

“You're warm. You're, like, made of warm.”

“It's 'cause I'm insulated.” Josh pinches the pasty skin of his own thigh, and he says, “Full-body fatty insulating layer. I'm like an ice bear.”

Faris hums and chews on his soppy pizza. He's dragged his chair to be as close to Josh's as possible, so he can lean over and rest his body against Josh's much warmer one. Whether Josh can tell that he's cold, or whether it's merely his insides that feel like he's cold, he's not sure about that. Even the light is cold, weird flickery LED lighting that gives everything a blue sheen because the landlord cannot be bothered with changing the bulb.

“You know… It's weird how black bears are called that 'cause they're black and brown bears are brown, but ice bears aren't called white bears, innit,” Josh continues, his mouth full as he chats. “But their scientific name is _Ursus Maritimus_ , which means _sea bear_ , so technically it also makes no sense they're called polar bears.”

“Aren't sea bears actually like… Those weird indestructible plankton things?” Faris cuts in. He's content to keep listening to Josh's voice as he fills the silence, but he's pretty sure he saw a documentary about sea bears a few weeks ago.

“Water bears,” Josh corrects. “Tardigrades. Some people call them space bears also.”

“Yeah, those things are creepy.”

“I love them,” Josh insists. “Six-armed tiny ugly mutant bears.”

Faris laughs. He reaches for Josh's hand to have some way to fidget, to run his fingers over Josh's knobbly knuckles. Josh makes a noise of contentment.

Waking up in the middle of the night always brings a surreal feeling with it, like staying out all night and returning when the sun is rising and most people are waking up for work. He’d compare it to a bad episode when the rest of the world doesn't seem real, or a computer simulation that hasn't loaded all the way, an eerie fear that he may turn a corner and find no road there.

Right now, though, collapsed into each other with Josh's smell overpowering the pizza and the kitchen's stench of bleach and room spray, he almost feels safe. His feet still shiver on the smooth floor, makes him regret toeing his socks off in his sleep, but Josh is warm and the pizza is only slowly cooling as the grease and cheese congeals.

“We should go to the zoo sometime. Have a look at some actual bears.”

“It's gonna be full of noisy children with parents. Plus it's like twenty-five quid for a ticket just to see some bears.”

“True,” Josh says, with an undertone like he's going to bring this subject back up sooner or later. “But we have to actually go on a date soon.”

Faris hums and nods. He wants to rub his face back into Josh's skin or hair or shirt, but that doesn't seem physically possible with the position they're in. “Probably. We do.”

The last time he went on a date that wasn't an awkward encounter with someone he'd slept with once must have been years ago when he was still with Holly. They went to museums a few times, but usually they stuck to coffee dates at the Costa down the road from their student hall.

Josh squeezes his hand. His voice is sluggish both with leftover sleep and the fullness of food. “Could go city farm. I haven't been yet, and it's really close to here and free entry, it's basically like a petting zoo.”

Faris makes the same humming noise again. He registers the words only tangentially when his thoughts wander several years back.

They went on their last date in that same coffee shop. Holly bought him a hot chocolate and sat them both down in the furthest booth from the door to tell him that she didn't think she could handle him anymore. _Handle_ , that's the word she used, vague yet condescending, before she went on to explain the more intricate details of why. She'd obviously rehearsed that conversation to herself a lot, but Faris' memories get blurry again here. Still, every reason she listed rang true, and every last one of them stung. In the end they walked home together since they lived in the same building, shrouded by total silence.

“Faz? What you thinking about?”

Josh pokes him in the ribs and scares him back up. “What?”

“You seemed really distracted, really suddenly.”

“Sorry.” Faris reflexively draws his arms up to his chest to hug himself, disentangling his fingers from Josh's in the process. “Just thinking back to the dark times when I still seriously believed I was a heterosexual.”

Josh laughs, and it's the high-pitched cackling one that bursts out of him like firecrackers. He buries his face in Faris' shoulder to silence himself.

“It's weird but I've been thinking about Holly so much recently,” Faris says without acknowledging it.

Holly memories are always weird, somehow even more distant than the time period before the diagnosis. The rift between him and the person who went out with Holly simply seems so much bigger, the entire relationship foggy in retrospect.

“Mainly 'cause she was the only person I really went out with before you, you know.”

The girl he went out with last year lasted from late October to when she went home to Sheffield for Christmas break and stopped answering his texts. He and Holly lasted almost five months, from the week after Freshers until February. They'd gone to the aquarium on Valentine's Day, a posh burger restaurant after, and that day Faris already knew that things were going wrong.

“I don't,” Josh says back. “Like, I never compared any of my exes to the person I was seeing at the time.”

Faris knows all the reasons Sea Life is terrible, but it's the only aquarium in the city, and he probably would have enjoyed that visit if it hadn't happened at that point in time. He remembers it clearly enough, but instead of Holly's clammy fingers in the uncomfortable silence when they were watching the sea turtles, he imagines Josh's rough hands and what his face would look like looking at the sharks. Sharks are the fish equivalent of bears, aren't they.

Faris says, “Probably 'cause your first relationship wasn't a complete trainwreck.”

“True,” Josh agrees, and he fidgets with his fingers against his leg, one bare knee now drawn to his chest.

Faris can picture that the same way he can picture taking Josh to the city farm or a museum or Spitalfields Market. He'd probably even give in and take Josh to the zoo, under a big umbrella on a rainy day when the families stay home. And he'd probably enjoy it a lot, too. A heaviness sits all the way down his gullet and in his stomach, though, and he knows it's not the pizza that's to blame.

“It's not like I miss her,” he continues in the hope that talking will somewhat relieve the pressure on his innards. “We never had much in common either way.”

She liked The Strokes and Sonic Youth and had a Paul Klee print stuck to the wall above her bed with BluTack, but she did fashion journalism, not illustration. Mainly, Faris went out with her because they lived in the same building and ate in the same kitchen.

Josh makes a noise of understanding and reaches one arm out to drape it over Faris' shoulders again. He's so warm, and Faris accepts the gesture. His brain feels fuzzy, vision going soft at the edges in spite of his glasses.

Josh likes My Chemical Romance more than a twenty-five year old man should and has a degree in physics, but right now, he looks at Faris like a deeper bond exists between them. A telepathic connection like the inner wires and connectors of their brains have been braided together, the right kind of metaphor for him.

“Why'd you go out with her in the first place?” Josh asks. “If it's okay for me to ask.”

His eyes are soft both with tiredness around the corners, the sleep-sand, and with the strange emotion that hangs in the air between them. Still, the heaviness in Faris' gut settles deeper like it's not going to leave any time soon. When he said earlier that he felt _almost_ safe with Josh, there was a reason for that.

“Mainly 'cause I had to,” he says. His head comes to rest on Josh's shoulder again. “Like, I thought that I had to go out with a girl to prove myself, prove that I wasn't _gay_. And she liked me.” Faris reconsiders that last sentence as soon as he's said it. “I like to think that she liked me.”

“That's normal.” Josh exhales through his nose and it almost resembles a sniff. “The first time I had sex with a guy was 'cause I thought I had to, and then I became a lesbian.”

He says it with such a lack of intonation that Faris isn't sure how to react. He keeps the laugh hidden inside his mouth, but it's a strange, sad laugh either way.

“And then I became a guy, so I decided to try sex with men again.” Josh laughs now, and it's another hidden laugh that's only barely discernible behind his tight lips. His is different, though, fond in a way that says, _And look at where I am now_.

Again, the heaviness inside keeps Faris from joining the moment. “I thought I was asexual or something for like a year and a half after Holly 'cause I was so in denial,” he says. He wants to hold Josh's hand again. “It was really bad because we literally had sex once and we were both virgins, it was awful,” Faris continues. “I actually worried I'd permanently ruined her sex life.”

Josh makes the cracking sound of a badly suppressed cackle. He doesn't say anything, only keeps himself close and warm to Faris' body, and he doesn't _need_ to say anything, either. The room gets quieter around them than it was, the barren silence of a late night replaced by their own comfortable kind.

Faris wants to go back to bed. He's only growing colder slowly thanks to Josh's heat next to him, but the benzos are catching up with him, not to mention he's working the early shift again tomorrow. His eyes ache at the cool lighting the way they normally only do when he's spent the night staying up on the internet.

“Josh?” he asks finally, when he's given up on trying to count the tile on the wall behind the kitchen sink.

He knows for a fact there's sixty of them, which is twelve fives, but whenever he tries to count it out again his eyes slip or his thoughts slip and he has to start over. On the table in front of them the pizza is getting colder and colder. He's had three slices of pepperoni, and Josh had two of each, which makes five slices left in total. In some way it all makes sense, but Faris is also pretty sure he's going to nod off in his chair soon.

“Why the fuck did we make two pizzas?”

And Josh… laughs. The giggle starts off small, like the squeal of letting the air from a balloon, but it grows steadily, the ugliest witch cackle he could possibly muster up. Josh curls forward with the tension in his belly, face rapidly going pink, and he yaps like a hyena for a reason Faris can't grasp. Faris absolutely does not understand what's so funny about what he just said.

As the laugh gets quieter, Faris asks, “Josh?”

“I'm sorry,” Josh presses out, and as much as he _attempts_ to sound apologetic, he still hiccups with laughter. “It's just… Your _face_ , and the way you said it, after it's been quiet the whole time…”

Then his head falls down onto Faris' shoulder again, and Faris can't keep himself from laughing along.  He doesn't understand the reason as much as it's infectious, Josh's stupid giggle that's only half an affectation. Josh pulls him in for a greasy-lipped kiss again for the tiny moment they can both suppress it, but he sounds hoarse already when he pulls back to keep laughing.

For some reason he can't place, Faris feels like crying. He only sniffs through the aftershocks of laughter.

“I don't know why I'm laughing,” he tells Josh.

Josh squeezes his shoulders tighter and beams at him, actual teardrops glittering in the corners of his eyes.

“I thought I heard something.”

James is standing in the doorway now, his dressing gown backlit by the living room lamp. Faris wonders briefly why he didn't hear the click of the switch. That's his first thought. His second thought is that, _oh_ , James isn't dead. He kind of expected that revelation to be more reassuring.

“Morning,” Faris dumbly says.

“I was just going to get Molly a glass of water,” James says and steps in.

His girlfriend's name is Molly, then, assuming she's his girlfriend at all. For the first time ever that Faris has been in the same room as him, James' hair isn't slicked back neatly, but messy with sleep and other things that Faris doesn't want to think about. Overhearing his flatmate having sex is bad enough.

“I see you brought your friend over again.”

“Still Josh,” Josh pipes up. “Still a boy.”

Instead of a coherent reply, James cranks the cold water knob on the tap. Faris doesn't think he's ever seen James drink tap water, either.

Josh nudges Faris and rolls his eyes in James' direction. In that moment, Faris' brain ceases its stupor and unfortunately begins working again, and like that, his heart falls down into his gut and rockets up into his throat in the same instant. He wrinkles his nose in what he hopes is an expression of _I know, he's a twat_.

The cold water no longer works properly, only a trickle no matter how much the knob is turned. James said he'd talk to their landlord about it, but that was last week and so far nothing has happened. In the time that James stands with his back to the both of them as the glass slowly fills, Faris hopes and begs that he's not going to say anything.

The silence turns awkward, and finally, James stops the trickle and asks, in an attempt at small talk, “So… you guys are gonna move in together, then?”

“That's the plan,” Josh says, in his most angelic and earnest tone of voice. “Sooner or later.”

“Well,” James says. That's the only thing he says, and Faris' chest feels so tight with relief he could almost cry again. “Hope you'll have tolerant neighbours.”

James snatches a slice of mushroom pizza from the big plate and leaves, and the light in the living room clicks off again.

–

_Friends and Lovers you may have followed what's occurred with my sister and co-owner of the BedMates business on this page and if you haven't you've definitely seen it on TV. I am very happy to announce that Harry is swiftly on her way to recovery and will be discharged from hospital later today. For that reason the shop is only open until 4PM today and as for the rest of the week we will rely more on our junior staffers while Haz is adjusting to life back home. Harry hopes to start working behind the counter again as early as next week, get ready and bring her all your loving X Rhys_

Faris reads the status update when he's on the bus to work. Already, it's gathering up likes and supportive comments, but he can't push away the heavy feeling that tightens up his throat. One of the comments is from Josh, _See ya soon Hazz XXXXXXX_ , followed by an onslaught of emojis. Once again, Faris finds it strange how what should be good news makes him feel worse, but in some deep corner of his brain, he knows it's actually not strange at all.

The last post he saw from the BedMates page, _MEET OUR JUNIOR STAFFERS_ and so on, because Rhys is a chatterbox even in written form, was a picture of him with his arms around Joe and Lola while they're all wearing their name tags. Even now that he scrolls back to look at it Faris isn't sure whether he likes that picture or not, given his awkward smile and the fact that he had to bend down a little ways to not look out of place. Joe and Lola look like a matched set, same bright eyes and beaming smiles, and the same emo fringe, even if Lola's hair is dyed a dusty pink that clashes with her name tag. They're even the same height, Faris thinks. Meanwhile, he's over half a foot taller than that, a skinny, looming figure with empty eyes and big square teeth that make him look more like a scarecrow than a human.

_Like a proud emo dad with his two emo kids_ , Josh put it, but obviously, Josh loves that picture. He was all over it when Faris took a look at it on Monday and pointed out that he looked _awful, like Weekend at Bernie's_ , which, come to think of it, was a strange pop-cultural reference. Faris hasn't even seen that movie once. Josh insisted that he looked fine, though, and Faris had to ring up a customer before he could argue. Not like he actually wanted to disagree, but that's part of the problem, he thinks.

Despite all the ways that Josh understands him, that connection he felt the other night, he can't possibly grasp the dread Faris feels looking at his own smiling face, genuine even if it looks fake. It's a feeling that's the opposite of nostalgia, that makes him look at all the polaroids on Rhys' blackboard and all the new memories with a tainted ache and any thought of the future even worse.

The bus ride to work only takes four stops, and still, when Faris pockets his phone, he can't shake the feeling that it's gone on for much too long. Maybe, as he pushes down the stop button, he hopes that today's going to be a busy day.

Deep down, he knows it won't be. Faris makes a stop at the Greggs down the road to grab a sausage roll, which he eats on his way to the shop. The meat is bland and it's still piping hot, too hot on his sensitive tooth holes, but he only bought the pastry to soothe his nerves rather than to quench any real hunger either way. Today is a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are never busy.

–

The van from St Mary’s is supposed to drop Harry off at four-thirty. Faris works the entire shift, eleven to four, but maybe ten customers trickle in over the day, and he’s left to rearrange the shelves in the showroom or order in new stock.

When they’re all standing out in front of the shop having a fag, Faris supposes that at least he’s not the only one who had a weird day today. Rhys is still adamant about the fact that they _don’t_ smoke, but Josh had offered them one, and Faris himself couldn’t resist the temptation either.

The van from St Mary’s is supposed to drop Harry off at four-thirty, again, five times eighty-six, seventeen times five plus one. When Faris checks his phone again, for the fifth time since he lit the badly-rolled cigarette Josh gave him, it’s two minutes past. He slides down along the wall into an uncomfortable squat, well aware that Josh follows the movement with lingering eyes.

“You okay?”

“Long day,” Faris simply says.

_Strange day_ , he wants to say, but that would involve mentioning the guilt that wouldn’t hop off his back no matter how he kept himself busy. Still, he’s not sure whether guilt alone is appropriate to describe that nagging feeling.

“You’re lucky you only came in at the end, I’ve still got that fucking song in my head.”

“It’s an album,” Josh only says. “Multiple songs.”

Faris corrects himself. “All of them.” He lets some of the ash from his fag drip down onto the wet pavement, and he gestures for Josh to bend down and light him up again.

Rhys has a handful of playlists on rotation over the shop’s speakers, pop divas and gay icons and Faris’ girl group one. Faris has most of them memorised, so he knows for fact he’s never heard this album in the shop before, some obscure band from the 1960s that put out precisely one record, which has somehow made it onto Spotify. Music for indie discos or niche retro clubs, the kind of music Rhys would say people don’t come to BedMates to hear.

“I wonder if I should text them,” Rhys says, then, after they’ve extinguished their cigarette with the toe of their loafer. “Or call them.” Their phone sits in their hand for the same reason Faris hasn’t been able to slip his back into his pocket, too.

“Don’t call them until it’s been fifteen minutes,” Josh says. “Do you have Hazza’s new number?”

Faris doesn’t focus on what Rhys says in response. Maybe it’s that today has been the first rainy day in weeks, the white noise of raindrops akin to television static in his brain, or maybe it’s that _Rhys_ has been weird today, too; Whatever frantic energy they had surrounding them completely wavered away, only replaced by a nervous silence. Faris deliberately slacked off when he was sorting out things in the backroom today, if only to avoid their strange, quiet presence coupled with Josh's incessant chatting.

Over breakfast this morning they made plans for the weekend, and Faris simply couldn't stomach to hear them repeated to Rhys, not with Josh's genuine excitement behind them. He looks at his phone again, no notifications to distract him, and he doesn't even bother with that game. What he needs is another fag, and his is already smoked too close to the filter, so he may as well extinguish it on the pavement.

Faris hates the empty stretch of time that comes with waiting, and he's pretty sure that's a symptom of something, too. He can't understand a word of what Rhys and Josh are saying anymore. His phone says four thirty-five, five times eighty-seven. Seventeen times five plus two, a waiting game of counting up. His ADHD, but now that he thinks of it, _a symptom of something_ is a phrase he can apply to most things.

Counting things in fives is a symptom of his OCD, and the rain washing away any other sound that could be processed by his brain is a symptom of ADHD, too, obviously. Wanting to kill himself was another OCD symptom. The grief he feels at the thought of seeing Jurassic World with Josh and holding his hand in the theatre, that's a symptom of the Vampire Tax, which is in turn a symptom of CBHS. Maybe the other way around.

The van comes from the right, so Faris should have been the first person to see it, but he only processes it's arrived when the shotgun door pops open and a burly hospital employee steps out. Rhys and Josh are already crowded by the rear sliding door, so the orderly has to push past them to open it.

“Miss Webb? Do you need any help?”

Faris picks himself up from the floor and steps closer. He watches Harry climb out from the back seat with her crutches, an uncertainty in her movements that makes Faris think of fawns again. Her face is anything but uncertain, though, glowing with the usual make-up and her newly-reconstructed nose. Once again, Faris is taken aback by how normal she looks, leaving aside the casts and the fading bruises. More than that, her hair is chopped short into a pixie cut.

Rhys is the first to go in for the hug and two kisses. “Oh my God,” they say, in an exalted stage-whisper voice. “Oh my God, Haz, you look amazing.”

Faris can hear it even with their face buried in Harry's neck, Rhys is on the verge of crying again. He thinks of how his dad's voice sounded either of those times on the labour ward, or even his mum's voice that one time. The two Webbs stand there embracing for a few more seconds, quiet words hushed between them, before Harry turns and Josh pulls her in tightly.

“I love your haircut,” Josh presses out, and when Harry thanks him this time, it sounds different, much more ecstatic.

Now it's Faris' turn to hug her, awkward with the too-big height difference and her one arm supporting one crutch. Even now, he's reluctant to touch her, but Harry hooks her free arm around the back of his neck so firmly that hesitation immediately leaves him.

“Hey,” Harry drags out by his ear, a sing-song in her voice that reminds Faris all too strongly once again that she and Rhys are related.

“Hey,” Faris says into her ear, anxious to jostle the moment. Harry feels much firmer in his grip than she looks, warmer than he remembered and sturdier. “You look really good, with your hair.”

“Thank you,” Harry says and beams, and she adds, “You look really good, too. Junior Staffer.”

Rhys said they'd invite their mum around for dinner, and she arrives half an hour after the hospital van, just in time for when they're all sitting around the dinner table arguing about takeaways. Faris has met Mum Webb twice before, once during Pride season last year and once Christmas the year before when he'd chosen to stay in London for the holidays. Tonight, she leans down to give him a hug and ask him how he's been just as soon as she's finished greeting her own children.

“It's so nice to see you,” Mrs Webb insists. “It's been so long, hasn't it?”

“I know,” Faris says back through the cloud of minty perfume that follows her. “Lovely to see you too.”

Rhys insists that she's the guest, so it's only fair for her to make the final decision on what food to order, and the restaurant their mum picks even has the Vampire-Positive logo on the menu. Later that night, when they've all shifted their takeaways onto proper plates and Faris is digging into his Chicken Tikka Masala with the hint of copper pennies in the sauce, Rhys decides to bring it up.

_It_ , Faris thinks, once again, what a strange way of putting things.

Rhys says, “Faris is converting, by the way. CBHS.”

“Oh, that's lovely,” Mum Webb says, not back to them but directly at Faris. Her face is lit-up bright and genuine, makes it obvious who she's related to. “Rhys and Haz have a cousin who's Vee, did you know?”

Faris did know that, very vaguely from some conversation at New Year's or Christmas too long ago, Rosie from Essex who had one Vampire grandfather. He only nods.

Mum Webb's actual first name is Rhiannon, and she's about the same age as Faris' own mum, the type of parent who's a member of PFLAG and who's been joining her children at Pride since Rhys first came out as gay. At the Christmas Faris met her for the first time, she had the most genuine look of horror on her face when he told her he was scared about coming out to his family.

Still, all things considered, Faris thinks he likes her, until she opens her mouth again to ask, “So, are you registered with the Blood Trust yet?”

He doesn't understand why everyone's so interested in that particular topic. At the very least, his chicken is really good, so he's got an excuse to not answer for a few more seconds.

“Not yet, no,” he finally says, and even then, his voice still comes out muffled as he's chewing. “Kind of had a lot going on in the last couple days.”

Their mum insists on getting the train back to Essex after dinner, but for dessert Rhys brings out the blueberry trifle and they all pile onto the ugly yellow couch to watch _Bend It Like Beckham_ , since Harry insists it's her favourite guilty-pleasure film. Faris ends up squashed with Josh halfway on his lap and Rhys' thigh pressed tightly against his, and Josh's sticky strands of hair pushing into his nose and his field of vision. They don't get in the way of his trifle, though, and Faris has seen the movie before anyway.

He winds his arm around Josh's waist and inhales his leftover smell of hairspray, the sweat and musk beneath and the almost tangible heat he carries with him. Once again, Faris is taken back to that familiar feeling from the hospital room, and even more so when the trifle is gone and Rhys brings out crisps and popcorn instead. Like every single time they've watched this movie, his eyes get a bit damp at the scene where Jess and Jules have their argument about the football coach. He'll chalk it up to the overwhelm of emotion as always, and he blinks precisely five times.

Josh passes him a tissue when a sniff slips out. Once he’s wiped his eyes, Faris squeezes tighter around his middle and pushes his face into Josh’s shoulder.

“It’s such bullshit they decided to make the movie worse by putting that forced het romance in there,” Josh whispers under the sound of the TV. “They were gay for each other and everyone can see it.”

–

On the next day, the rain is still pouring down. Faris spends his morning shift at BedMates on the internet.

_Police forces have picked up investigation after parts of a body were discovered in Hyde Park during the evening hours. Once again, a motive of Vampiric terrorism is assumed. While the dead is yet to be identified by name, police officials have confirmed the victim to be a young woman of Caucasian background. Graffiti found near the scene of crime may point towards a connection with the Angharad Webb case._

Faris has lost count of how often he’s refreshed his Facebook and Twitter feeds on his phone. The first article he read didn't mention it, but painted onto the asphalt was _THIS COULD HAV BEEN YOU_ , the same straight-lined script as the spray paint on the shop's façade. He stopped counting after the tenth time he pulled up his social media, and after the fifteenth time that he scrolled past that same picture of the graffiti. When he switches from the email inbox to Google Chrome, to refresh the BBC News website for the twelfth time, nothing new on the topic has come in, either.

_Bondage Basics Faux Leather Suede Velcro Cuffs_ , twenty pounds. There's sixteen more orders backlogged in the inbox, and he's only managed to process and package five so far. _Latex Condoms Ribbed, twelve pack_ , fifteen pounds. The next item is one of those indie porn flicks they sell, _Boys Will Be Toys: Twinks, Trans Men, and the Men Who Love Them_. Joe's working the shift along with him today, and at the moment he's explaining the features of a curved vibrating dildo to a short person with smooth blonde hair. Fifteen pounds for the DVD.

Time to check BBC News again. No news on the body, no HLF stepping forward to claim it, no other bodies found. _No other bodies_ should be relief enough, but it very much isn’t. He read the original piece of news on the bus to work, but it must have broken the night before, approximately when he was sitting on Rhys’ couch watching _But I’m A Cheerleader_ for the fifth time. Faris doesn't want to know whether finding out in the same room as Rhys and Harry while it happened would've been worse or not, but the very thought puts an itch under his skin. Facebook holds no news either.

“Faris?”

Faris’ head snaps up at the sound of his own name. As soon as he’s registered Rhys’ tone, he wonders whether they called for him before. _Probably_ , he comes to that conclusion when they snap their fingers in irritation.

“Faris, could you please ring Erica up?”

When he realises Rhys has a customer in tow, a butch woman with the sides of her head buzzed short, he instantly blinks, five times over, and switches back on

“Sorry.”

He scans the bar codes of the vibrator and velcro cuffs the customer had picked out, stuffs them into a paper bag when she says she’d like one, and he keys the 5p charge into the register. Fifty-five pounds and five pence, a perfect three fives.

“Thank you,” Faris says. He puts on a customer service smile and says, “Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.”

The woman and Rhys seem to know each other. While they chat and Faris turns back to the Macbook to close all those errant tabs, a guilt creeps up his back again, but one that’s less ominous and a lot more corporeal. He switches to the mailbox to find even more newly-arrived orders, and he goes back to copying items into the opened invoice template. The door chimes once more when the woman exits the shop.

“You seemed a little bit distracted there,” Rhys says from where they're still standing in front of the counter.

Faris doesn’t look up. Send invoice to printer, move on to next order. This next person has ordered a whole bunch of cock rings, but Faris isn’t one to judge over that. Selling sex toys to strangers stopped being daunting the second he started doing it for a living. _Better Sex 101 Buzzing Cock Ring_ , twelve pounds.

“I’m sorry about what happened there,” he says without raising his gaze from the screen. “I haven’t been thinking clearly all morning now.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” Rhys insists. Once again, they snap their fingers to capture Faris’ attention. “Look at me for a sec.”

Faris reflexively blinks again when he turns his head to face them. Rhys gives him their biggest, brightest smile, not even the customer service one.

“Erica's an old friend, it's fine if you slipped up, okay?”

“Okay,” Faris says, but he adds, “I wasn't slipping up, I've been distracted all morning long.”

He lowers his gaze from Rhys' face to their paisley shirt, and then back to his screen. _Rainbow Variety Cock Ring Grab Bag_ , fifteen pounds.

“Like… There's a difference, sometimes it's not ADHD and I'm just being a dickhead and slacking off, it's…”

“Faris?” Rhys interrupts him once again, this time in a voice that asserts they won't let him disagree. “It's okay. Don't worry about it.”

They lean in and place a warm hand on his shoulder, a surprising weight behind the delicate fingers. Faris automatically looks back up.

“Okay,” he says, well aware he can't say much of anything else.

“Sound.” Rhys leans down to pick up the stray teacup they'd forgotten on the counter, and as they turn for wherever they're headed, they say, “Oh, I'm meeting with the Carnival of Sins people in half an hour, just so you know. Your friend's also coming, Rachel, if you wanted to say hi.”

“Cool.”

–

Faris doesn't hate Camden Town. He's always viewed it with a similar disregard that he views most parts of the city that aren't overran by tourists and overpriced department stores, too distant to form a real opinion on. _Everyone who lives in London ends up hating it_ , his mum always used to say in relation to some distant uncle he hasn’t seen in years, and she was probably right with that, too.

Still, Camden has its own internal logic, a pattern behind the bustling teenagers and tourists and dodgy souvenirs. The high street sheds its skin like a snake, the little shops struggling to sell the newest knock-offs, but closer to the canal there's a solid foundation in the shops with colourful façades, tattoo studios with classical motives on their front face and shoe shops with giant high-tops and buckled platform boots, an Indian jewellery seller adorned by an ornamented elephant's head.

Over the canal lies the market, the heart of it all with its winding tunnels and mosaic of sellers. Faris has never been to Disneyland, but he imagines it looks something like this, busy and colourful and a large in-between, not glitzy like down-town Mayfair and Piccadilly but not covered in sweltering bin bags like Hackney, either.

“I've never seen so many Vampires in one place before,” Faris says.

For dinner, Josh bought himself an overpriced portion of loaded chips at one of the street food stands in the market's inner court. Faris bought a slightly less overpriced takeaway container of falafel with tahini, and Josh talked him into getting one of those berries-and-blood smoothies as well. Now, they're sitting on the sprawling steps that overlook the mouth of the stables. In spite of the weather or because of it, Camden Market is bustling with people, the day warm and bright but not muggy with the sunlight turning everything garish colours.

“I do think it's a bit like being gay, honestly,” he adds. “Like the first time I went to Rainbow Reads when I met you, I was really taken aback by the fact that there was other gay people out there, that I wasn't the only one.”

“You never met any gays on the internet,” Josh says in a tone that's sceptical but obviously not a question. He uses his wooden fork in an attempt to pick up a soggy chip, but only with moderate success. “But you went to a Vampire bar before, you told me about that.”

“Yeah, but I don't think that really counts,” Faris says now as he watches two girls with takeaway plastic milkshake cups from Red Room wind through the crowd, and he carefully dips one ball of falafel into the sauce. “Like, that place was so posh it was just completely removed from reality, they charged twenty pounds for a cocktail. I don't think anyone there was the type of person who goes to two shots rallies.”

Josh hums. “So you're saying it's like the Friendly Society of Vee bars,” he points out, and he reaches for Faris' plastic cup to take a sceptical whiff of the iced drink inside. “You know, I've always wondered if human blood tastes different from animal blood. If it's like cow blood tastes like beef or pig blood tastes like pork?”

Faris stretches to grab the smoothie back from Josh's hand. “Give that here.”

Even up top where they're sitting, the smell of food hangs heavy in the air, much heavier than the sweat-and-skin of crowds of people, curries and Thai food and giant slices of pizza. Beneath everything else, the stench of copper pennies lingers, hot, sweet blood cooked into a sauce or served pure atop some thick-cut chips. Almost every single one of the food vendors here has the Vampire-Positive logo on their shop front or _LICENSED ANIMAL BLOOD SELLERS_ somewhere. One shop they passed had a chalkboard saying _Have A Bloody Good Day._ Again, Faris supposes it's the thought that counts.

He actually used to come here a lot when he was at uni and still had money to go to gigs, but the last time was after graduation, that time Josh dragged him to the market for his birthday. Still, when they were walking through earlier Faris couldn't keep his eyes from flitting, another shimmering pale face wherever he looked, another Humanity for Vees Society badge pinned to someone's lapel and another gaggle of teenagers holding blood-berry smoothies. The realisation made him feel almost intoxicated, almost just like how taking the first sip of his juice makes him feel now.

“I mean, I wouldn't know, so…” he adds. “I don’t really question what animal the blood’s from.”

The smoothie is raspberry and blueberry and a few other fruits Faris didn't recognise on a basis of cow's blood, but the metallic tang beneath doesn't taste particularly beefy.

Josh says, “Ew,” but that doesn't deter him from shoving another chip in his mouth. “You know, I've been wondering if they make, like, supplements for Vampires, so you can get in all the nutrients you need without having to actually drink blood.”

“They do, for Muslims and vegans,” Faris says back. “But it's expensive as fuck, so you have to do an appeal to the NHS to get the prescription. Plus I haven't heard anything on whether it works like the real thing.”

“Ew.”

Faris hides his chuckle by taking another sip.

“I mean, from what I've seen synthetic testosterone works just fine, I don't see why fake blood wouldn't work like real blood.”

“I don't think it's like, actual fake blood, it's just a supplement capsule.” Faris eats another ball of falafel, even if he suddenly realises he's not hungry at all. He's been sitting on those steps for too long. “So, like… What are we doing after this?”

“I don't know,” Josh says back, muffled by the amalgamation of chips and cheese in his mouth once again. “Could go down into the catacombs, the antiques sellers, or we could walk further along the high street…”

He's cut off when his phone audibly vibrates. Josh swallows down the bite that's currently in his mouth, and he digs the phone out from his skinny trouser pocket. Faris can see the display with the incoming call from the corner of his eye, _Hazza_ with the girl-kissing-girl emoji, and his eyebrows fly up before Josh accepts.

“Hello? … Camden Market. I told you earlier we were going out.”

The next pause is a little bit longer, long enough for Faris to decide he's _definitely_ not hungry anymore. His stomach draws closed so fast he can almost feel it.

“Yeah. Yeah, he's with me,” Josh says.

His face is starting to turn pale the way Faris last saw it at that family barbecue, a panic of which he doesn't know the cause and he's not sure whether Josh knows the cause either, for that matter.

“Alright. I'll get us an Uber. See you in a bit.”

Josh drops the hand with his phone and opens up the taxi app at the same time that his other hand reaches for Faris' wrist. “Faz?” he asks. “We're gonna have to go home.”

–

Faris expected the night terrors to come back, but they didn't.

The very first thing Harry said to him last night was, _I'm so sorry. I didn't want you to find out by yourself._

BBC News was showing a repeat of the PM's speech when they came in, the same footage they continued to show periodically over the rest of the evening. Standing outside Downing Street 9, she talked about the surge in Vampiric terrorism, the families of the identified and all the innocent members of the Vee community. Faris can remember the exact image, burned into his brain from watching the looped footage for too long, but the longer he focuses on it the more distorted it becomes, the lines twisted into a caricature of Camille Lockridge to make her look like a political cartoon.

“Vampiric terrorism was never born from Vampirism as an illness.”

The copy of the Daily Mirror the woman across from them on the Tube earlier was reading had the headline _New Anti-Vampire Legislation Hopes to Decrease Terrorist Activity_ , the same headline that Faris already read five times over on five different newspapers.

_Lockridge Combats Vampiric Terrorism with Compulsive Registration_

_Angharad Webb Case Gives Way to Vampire Ban_

_I need you to know that I didn’t want them to do this_ , Harry also said that.

There’s a lot of things Harry didn’t want to tell him about, it turned out, her visit from the PM herself or the DNA test or all those visits from police forces. One of the worse tabloids, The Sun or the Daily Mail, printed that same picture of her with her smashed face in the hospital onto the front page again, _They just made me into the face for their movement_.

_It’s planned, they wanted it. The way the DNA test came back… the Vee DNA, they couldn't have found any. Not like that._

Not to mention what she said about that interview, _Like they were trying to use me for an agenda._

Faris thinks about conspiracy theorists while his brain reels with repeated sound bites and information, and he’s already got the stereotypical shaggy hair and hearing voices down. Today’s a sunny day, the worst kind of day to brave Leicester Square, but Josh slinks them both through the gaps in the crowd efficiently.

What’s more is that Harry’s battered face doesn’t seem to leave them alone. Whether it’s discarded newspapers on the ground and in the bins or some kind of flyers, Harry follows them through the crowd with her black eyes and broken nose and hollow cheekbone. She watches them from posters and West End musical billboards and the heads of tall girls with honey-brown hair, eyes tracking along like the Mona Lisa’s. Faris is half surprised that they haven’t printed her onto t-shirts and sold her off to the tourists yet.

He remembered his noise-cancelling earbuds today, but he’s not sure whether he prefers the silence to the ominous white noise of too many people in one place. At least without the earbuds in he wouldn't be left alone with his thoughts and the snippets of voices that follow him around like earworms.

_The proposed_ Angharad’s Law _would criminalise failure to register with the National Haematophage Blood Trust within a given time frame_ , a smooth male voice of a newsreader says. _Offenders will be subject to a fine or short sentence of imprisonment in addition to a compulsory defanging._

Even when he knows fully well he’s being watched, Faris can’t help but turn and twist around every few steps to look for the helmets and bowler hats between the bruised faces at the same time that his tongue pokes up into his empty tooth-holes. Whether they can see it or not, he doesn’t know, or whether they can _smell_ it on him; In the massive sea of humans, he can only faintly sniff out other Vampires. He wasn’t ever meant to come here, and the worst part of the night terrors not returning is that the _effects_ still linger, the cold panic that clings to his back. Why Josh chose to book a showing in a city centre cinema, he doesn’t know that, either.

_The sale of blood or products containing blood will be strictly prohibited to those without a valid Blood Trust registration card._ A sentence fragment from a newspaper he picked up on during the Tube journey, but Faris can’t help but read it in the same newsreader voice again.

He doesn’t take the earbuds out until after they’ve picked up their tickets at the counter. Josh gets them popcorn and drinks while Faris stands awkwardly between some cardboard cut-outs, and they go to find their seats in the back of the theatre.

“I hope it’s not going to be all kids with their parents,” Faris says once he’s found a comfortable position for his legs.

“It’s a movie about dinosaurs,” Josh whispers back and already shovels the first handful of popcorn into his mouth. “You know it’s going to be all kids.”

When they start showing the trailers for upcoming releases, Faris digs his phone out from his pocket. He always has it set to silent to begin with, so now he opens his messages and texts _Tom (DO NOT PICK UP)_ again.

_can i get my meds refilled after i move too?? I think i REALLY need to up my antipsychotic dosage_

Faris hits send, but with the awful reception inside the theatre he has to wait for the green bar on top of the screen to stretch all the way across.

“Why d’you have your phone out during a movie, you awful rude person?” Josh whispers to him.

“Just checking something.”

 


	15. secrets

“Never seen anyone with hair like that who was actually allowed to drive,” the bouncer says. His eyes flicker back and forth from Josh's license to his actual face.

The club Rachel invited them to is ten minutes from Faris’ flat, an inconspicuous brick building that used to be a working men’s pub, tucked into a side street across from the big Tesco. Tonight is a Wednesday, and the queue outside the door is short.

“Okay. _Joshua_. You’re not a haemo, are you, right?”

Josh wrinkles his nose. “No, no, I’m not. I’ve got freaky teeth but I’m not a Vampire.”

“Right. You’re good to go in.”

The bouncer isn't a Vampire, or at least Faris can't sniff him out, but with Rachel by his side and the gaggle of Vee girls in the smoking area nearby it’s hard to be sure. He takes one glance at Rachel's Canadian ID and her blood trust registration card, but his hand pulls Faris’ passport from his fingers instead.

Faris’ throat instinctively tightens. The bouncer's smooth bald head looks like a glazed walnut when his brow furrows deeply.

“You’re a haemo,” he says.

 _We prefer to be called Vees_ , sits in the back of Faris’ mouth like it had since the first time the bouncer said the H-word, but again, he doesn't dare to say anything.

“I can see you are. Let me see your registration card.”

“I haven't got a registration card yet,” Faris says, and his voice comes out monotone and fuzzy like his throat. The fight-or-flight instinct already tightens his muscles, jaw locked up to make the words squeeze through even more viscously. “I’ve had a lot going on.”

“Sorry mate, but I can't let you in without a registration card, it’s the law.”

“No, it’s not.”

Before Faris could manage to respond, Rachel already cuts into the bouncer’s condescension, put on so thickly he can feel it in the air.

“Just because the law’s been proposed doesn’t mean it’s already in effect, that’s bullshit.”

“Love, this conversation doesn't concern you.”

Faris doesn't know what to say. His insides feel tight, _wrapped in knots and strangling themselves_ tight.

“What if I say that you telling my friend he can’t have entry to your club because of a law that doesn't actually exist yet actually does concern me?” Rachel shoots back. “Here, I’ve got a valid registration card. I’ve got it covered.”

Her voice is smooth and cold when she reaches out one hand to show the bouncer, but the undertone makes it obvious that she’s not allowing for any objections. Faris suddenly remembers the reason she intimidated him in the first place.

“Love, I can't let you both inside on one card.”

“Don’t call me _Love_.”

Faris is suddenly very, very glad that there’s no mass of queuers waiting behind them. If it weren't frozen inside his veins, he’s sure his blood would be pumping right up to his face.

“I said it’s against the law.”

“I said, I’ve got it covered,” Rachel repeats.

Before the bouncer can react, she takes Faris’ arm and drags him past. For the next few seconds, Faris’ tongue remains glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Sorry about that,” Rachel half-shouts up to the general vicinity of his ear.

Once again, her heels shrink the difference between them, but the rift still looks much bigger than it should be, especially with Faris’ guts still coiled up. Like an animal caught in headlights, his bones feel fragile and rickety inside him, a poorly-made structure that barely holds the rest of him upright. Around his upper arm, the ring where Rachel had grabbed him stings like a blooming bruise. One, two, three, four, five steps.

“What if he follows us inside to kick us out?” Faris finally asks when Rachel is guiding him through a pack of blokes crowded in the middle of the bar room.

“He’s not going to,” Rachel decisively says, and she leads Faris through a door and into a crowded hallway. “I know the owner.”

The music is getting louder now, and through the windows of the fire door at the end of the corridor Faris can see the lights flashing from inside. Underneath his boots, the bass vibrates up into his bones and overpowers the thump of his heart that still hasn't calmed back down.

Josh rejoins them as soon as Rachel has pushed the door to the main room open.

“Sorry, there was a holdup,” she explains. “I'll get us some drinks.”

Josh gives Faris a freaky-toothed smile beneath the specks of red and purple that dance across both their faces. “You alright?”

Faris blinks a few five times to help himself adjust and strews his glance around the room. The walls appear to be made of solid glitter that almost looks like gore, but he can't be sure whether that's just the tinted disco lights. On the far side of the room, in front of a curtain of tinsels, ceiling-high sparkling letters spell out _MOTH_.

“Okay,” he says back.

“D'you want to just sit down with drinks for now, when she comes back?”

Faris surveys the room again in an effort to get adjusted quicker. The booths lining the walls are stuffed with giggling packs of girls and twinks sipping Gin and Tonics, but the dance floor is hectic, yet not too crowded. With the bass pumping up through his legs, the idea of swaying his hips and shaking his arse is almost too tempting.

“I want to dance.”

Josh's face splits open into a roaring cackle when he reaches for Faris' hand and pulls him straight into the bustle. Tonight's theme, Rachel explained, is not exactly a gay night and not exactly an indie disco, so the stocky drag queen DJ plays the cheesy eighties pop precisely at the intersection. When they've found a place to fit themselves into in the crowd, _You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)_ kicks in, and Faris never expected to appreciate hearing that song quite this much.

Dancing is even easier than he remembered, and even more so once Rachel's elbowed her way back to them with pint cups of cider and black in her hands. _Cider and red_ , she said over the music, the bitter fruity fizz of cider tinted with sweet metallic taste and sweeter blackcurrant. Faris has always found a certain energy inside clubs, one thing he loves despite his general hatred. Maybe the hectic air is what speeds the intoxication along, that lowers his inhibitions more than the blood and alcohol.

Faris gyrates his hips and waves his arms, once at Josh, then at Rachel, and in turn the two of them also dance towards each other in their little circle. Even if he cared about how he looked, the lights flash around them so harshly that nobody would see either way. The crowd around them is made of marble-pale bodies and black lines of fabric, turned into abstract art by the lights and disco balls. A projector paints psychedelic images around the room, and Faris' brain turns soft and warm like the goop inside a lava lamp. He sees Josh, Rachel, Josh again, blurry with motion and the flickering tinsel behind them, and the music keeps them all moving with the rhythm.

–

Three rounds of cider and red in, the music slows for the first time. The New Order track that was playing peters out into a drum machine loop instead of the next song. A warm, deep voice flows from the speakers.

“This next song is a request,” the DJ says. “And I know you're gonna love it.”

Faris didn't make the request, none of them did, but one split second after the needle hits the vinyl, Josh's face lights up.

“I love this song,” he shouts over the opening drum beats.

Faris decides he also loves this song. He recognises it from _somewhere_ , whether that's Rhys' drag routine or he's simply heard it at too many clubs in the past.

“I don't think I know this song,” Rachel shouts back.

When the vocals come in, Josh does the baritone, and Faris naturally takes the female singer's part. Somehow, he knows all the words. If he doesn't, he still thinks he's got a good idea of what the words are _meant_ to be. He sees Josh twitching his arms and wiggling his hips in perfect sync to the rhythm, a distorted mirror, Josh from afar and then much closer when they belt the chorus in unison. Faris takes Josh's hand in his, then Rachel's smaller hand with his other, and she shrieks out a laugh when Josh closes the circle. By the time the second chorus rolls around, she's singing along with them.

Faris sees Josh, he sees Rachel's bouncing curls and her mouth caught open with the words she doesn't know, and he sees Josh’s gleaming teeth and sparkly eyes, brighter than the glitter. He sees Josh, Josh, Josh. His hands are starting to feel sweaty, but he can't bring himself to tear them away, not when Josh is so warm, so radiant, so solid. Faris’ heart is fluttering so fast he can feel it across his entire chest. He sees Josh's face split into a grin so wide it has to be painful, in front of the big _O_ and then right in front of his face when the chorus comes around again.

Faris needs to be closer, closer, and he finally loosens his hands. Now they’re close, so close their wrists bump into each other when they keep dancing, and that’s when the song slows down to a quiet moment, the build-up before the finish. Faris is _positive_ he knows all the words to this bit.

“Bang, bang, bang on the door, baby,” he sings into Josh's face, so close to his it’s almost blurry.

“Knock a little louder, sugar.”

Josh’s voice is comically deep in an effort to imitate the male singer’s, and Faris wants to laugh even more than he already wants to laugh. The next time he repeats the words, his entire mouth feels shaky.

The crowd is clapping all around them so the air vibrates, counting up to the final chorus, and still, all Faris can see is Josh and the dancing lights on the tinsel behind him. The floor is vibrating with more than just the bass, too, all the way into his windpipe when he decides to just shout along with both voices. He can't hear the distinction between his and Josh's voice anymore, and he's sure the entire club is singing along with them.

“You _what_?!” the baritone singer exclaims, and neither of them is shouting along anymore, because…

Because in that second, Josh is kissing Faris. They're chest to chest, nose to nose, and again, the moment is zoomed in-on, amplified and stretched out a million times over. There's no more clapping, no more dancing, only Josh's arms around him and Josh's heartbeat next to his. Faris doesn't dare to breathe.

“Tin roof… RUSTED!”

The female singer retorts, the moment breaks, and the club jumps to life again. Faris' heart still pounds to the rhythm when they both spring back into dancing, and so does Josh's when they grab each other's hands again. Faris pulls Rachel back in, and he kisses her, too, only on the cheek. He sees Josh's distorted laughing face and Rachel's laughing face with her crinkly eyes, and the tinsel as the light dances over it, and all he can do is laugh along. He sees the room move around them, the blinding red gleam from the glitter and tinsel. His eyes ache so much when they well up with moisture.

The lighting changes from gore to deep purple when the song transitions into the next, a thrumming electronic track. The singer has a warm, smooth voice, and the reverb of the synth once again pulses into Faris' legs and compels him to keep dancing. He's never heard this song before.

Faris sees Josh, bathed in a shade of purple that's almost blue, and he sees Rachel with her floor-length dress and swishy sleeves, like some kind of sea witch. Their limbs flow waxy to the synth, and his bones feel like melted butter. His brain feels melted, too, that same psychedelic goop sensation with bubbly impulses rising to the top, so he keeps shaking his hips and waving his arms, first in Josh's direction, then in Rachel's. The singer's voice is so soothing, much too low and calm for such a driving rhythm, Faris shuts his eyes for a second. Blind with the spotlights turning the backs of his eyelids red, his hands find Josh's again, dizzy with the pulsing bass.

“I don't actually know this song,” he admits when the chorus comes around.

“Me neither,” Josh shouts back, but his mouth moves along with the words regardless.

Faris can't even hear the words when he motions Rachel to rejoin their circle. His head is crowded with bass and glitter, tinsel and blood and cider, and with the hypnotic clapping beat of the instrumental. The song itself sounds like it has glitter all over it, the jingling sound light bouncing from a disco ball probably makes, and Faris shuts his eyes to feel it in the sweaty air all around them. The club vibrates underneath him, the air vibrates with motion, and the floor vibrates even more with the singer's smooth voice in the second verse.

Suddenly, he understands every word perfectly. Faris blinks his eyes open and sees Josh's lips in sync with the vocals, one, two, three, four, five times, and every time Josh sings to him with a strange voice.

“I'm going outside. I need some fresh air.”

Faris recognises that feeling that creeps up his back as _too much_ , an insidious gauze that wraps around his head and blurs his vision. He barely even registers Josh's or Rachel's response, whether it comes out clearly when he repeats, “I need some fresh air,” before he goes to shoulder his way through the crowd. He wants to plug his ears.

–

The smoking area is a strip of pavement next to the fence outside the club, almost as crowded as the inside, but at least Faris doesn't have to hear that music anymore. At least he doesn't have to look at Josh anymore, he realises that's a more accurate way to put it and then immediately realises he doesn't want to think that thought, either. Faris sinks down to rest against the edge of the wall and digs out his phone, anything to keep his thoughts focussed on _something else_. Maybe he should've brought his fags.

Maybe he should've brought his earbuds, too, but the words from the girls standing next to him blend into a monotone white noise either way, a giggling, chattering kind of birdsong. Faris scrolls and scrolls and scrolls and doesn't actually read anything, but trying to process the words on the screen keeps his brain busy enough to stop thinking otherwise.

He really needs a fag.

“Excuse me?”

Faris hears the voice clearly, but he doesn't stop the automated motion of scrolling his thumb. Scrolling is easier than talking or moving, or thinking, or breathing. Unfortunately, though, someone's hand moves between him and his phone to wave, and he snaps his head up to see the offending party.

“Hey. Sorry.” It's a girl with dusky skin and black lipstick, probably a first year at uni, if he had to guess. She gives him such a bold smile that Faris would forget to react, if he wasn't already not reacting. “Have you got a lighter?”

Faris blinks once to readjust himself to social interaction, and then four more times to make it even.

“A lighter?” the girl repeats, a look on her face like she's concerned he might not actually be capable of the English language.

“No. Sorry,” Faris says back. His voice comes out as if someone had sewn his mouth shut, so maybe her concerns are entirely justified. Maybe he should just go home before it gets worse. “I don't smoke anymore.”

“Oh, okay.” He doesn't think this girl is actually a Vampire. “Are you okay, though? You look really poorly.”

“Faris?”

Faris is entirely relieved to hear Rachel's voice coming from behind him, and he whips his head around and stands up as quickly as he possibly can.

“Hey.” He doesn't know what to say other than _Hey_ , so the very first thing he does is move in for a hug. The sensation of a second human body next to his is relieving in a deeply unsettling way.

“Hey.” Rachel grins, deep red-painted lips over bright white teeth. “Just wanted to see if everything's alright with you out here.”

“Yeah, it's…”  Faris pauses as soon as he realises he doesn't know what to say to her. “Just everything got too much for me at some point, you know? Brain problems.”

To illustrate, he waves one hand in front of his face, motion-blurry like the mental gauze.

“Fair enough.”

“Needed some quiet and fresh air. It's like a nightmare sometimes, with the flashing lights and the music.” Small talk. “Why I don't usually go to clubs like that.”

“Oh, no, I don't go to clubs either. Unless it's a sex thing.”

Rachel laughs, and Faris laughs along. His chest cavity feels like it's slowly returning to its regular size.

“Just wondering, do you have, like, Asperger's or something?”

Faris starts, “Well…”

He's just as soon cut off by Rachel when she continues, “Sorry, don't take that the wrong way. I was just asking, 'cause a couple of the girls I teach are _on the spectrum_ and you reminded me of them…”

Faris finally continues what he was about to say. “I mean, I wouldn't know, so…” He squints his eyes and waves his hand again because he just as soon realises he’s not sure where he’s going with that sentence. “Like, I don't think anyone was considering whether I could have Asperger's or not with all my other brain stuff going on.”

“Brain problems,” Rachel repeats, a smile on her face that could be condescending or understanding. Faris doesn't want to decide between those two options. “Sorry if this is too personal, but what do you actually mean when you say that?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Faris says back. He doesn't think he can remember the last time he had this conversation and found it to be _too personal_. “It’s mainly ADHD and OCD, plus probably some other stuff. I’ve got psychotic symptoms, but nobody’s sure what’s causing them.” To illustrate it, he waves his hand for a third time.

“Oh, okay.” Rachel smiles again, and even now that Faris is aware of the quirk in it, something seems _off,_ as if her mouth is stretched too wide to fit into her face. “Just wondering, is all.” Then she says, “So,” with an undertone that makes it obvious she’s about to change the conversation topic. “Have you registered with the Blood Trust, then?”

“You’re like the fifth person to ask me about that,” Faris says. He starts, “Actually…” and then stops short just as soon as he realises what he’s about to tell her. “Do you know where Josh is?”

“He said he was gonna go to the bathroom,” Rachel says. “The men’s was really crowded, so I don't think he’ll be done anytime soon.”

“Oh, okay.” Faris sits back down on the wall. The smoking area seems much quieter now, the bulk of the girls hanging about now back inside, and still, he lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. “I’m not signing up at all.”

Rachel looks like she doesn't know how to react. Beyond that, Faris can't discern the emotion in her expression.

“I don't know how much I can tell you about this, but the guy who turned me, Tom, he invited me to come live with him in Scotland instead.” He realises as soon as he’s said it how dodgy that situation sounds without context.

“Tom,” Rachel repeats, but it sounds as if she doesn't have anything else to say, or maybe like Faris mentioning the name made her wonder whether she’s supposed to recognise it.

“Tom Cowan. Don’t know if you know him,” Faris says. “He’s an activist. Bit of a posh twat.”

Rachel laughs. In her velvet-flocked heels, she steps closer towards him. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Go on.”

Her movements are delicate when she perches herself next to him, not enough space for it to be a comfortable seat. Faris can't help but be in awe of her velvety gown that goes all the way down to the floor, even if it’s truly not appropriate attire for a night club.

“Better,” she says with another beaming smile.

“Yeah.” Faris looks down at his hands on his knees, suddenly uncomfortable with the eye contact now that they’re so close. A hollow, raspy laugh escapes his throat.

“So, how did you meet this _Tom_?” Rachel asks. “Sorry, I know I keep bombarding you with all those personal questions, but…”

Faris cuts her off. “It’s fine.” He shakes his head, well aware that even though he’s no longer looking directly at her, Rachel’s gaze remains fixed on her face.

He’s read the statistics, obviously, that over ninety-nine percent of Vees inherit it through their parents and he’s an _anomaly_ without even going into the whole one-in-ten-thousand bit. Nevertheless, he can't shake the idea that she’s looking at him with a voyeuristic gleam in her eye.

“We were at Sleepover, the one before the one when I met you. That’s when I got it.”

Rachel doesn't ask him to elaborate, so Faris won’t. He feels that he should say something else to keep the comfortable silence from turning uncomfortable, maybe a joke.

“So I guess, moral of the story is don’t hook up with weirdos at sex parties.” And again, he does that weird laugh. He needs a fag.

“You’re calling me a weirdo?” Rachel asks, but she laughs in turn.

“I was really more thinking I’m the weirdo out of the two of us,” Faris says back. He looks down at his hands folded together again, his boots on the pavement, and he’s ran out of things to say.

“Do you like Tom?”

“I just said I think he’s a twat,” Faris honestly says.

A little, it’s strange to put his opinion of Tom into words like that, but that’s probably only because he hasn’t let himself think about anything related to this topic in depth. He’d rather not think about that fact, either.

“Plus I’ve got Josh, obviously.” Just in case she meant it that way.

Rachel laughs. “I thought generally, _as a person_.”

“Fair enough.”

Faris doesn't think he can say more than what he already said, _But I’ll get free blood and food, and all I need to do in exchange is work on a farm_. He’s sure that would violate any rules of secrecy, even more than everything he already told Rachel. In the same breath, he also knows that by not explaining anything, he’s making his whole situation sound ten million times _dodgier_. An astronomical amount of fives.

Rachel doesn't say anything. Maybe he should actually look at her again. She’s got her fingers entangled just like his, folded around the clutch purse in her lap. For a second, her face looks too soft and the street around them is too deserted, the same old surreal feeling of being out late at night. Only the faintest sound of the music that can't be muffled by the walls reminds him that they aren't the only two people in the world. Faris’ insides feel tender, a strange, vulnerable sensation that’s close to pre-emptive grief and so far at the same time.

“We’re leaving on Tuesday morning,” he says, and suddenly aware that this is possibly his only chance to say it, he adds, “I haven't told Josh yet. I don't know how to.”

He regrets it as soon as the statement is out, hanging in the air like a warped waft of cigarette smoke. Once again, it's only saying it aloud that makes him realise how terrifying that thought is.

“Tuesday,” Rachel repeats. Her voice sounds suddenly hollow like she can feel it too, black eyes cast downwards to her skirt for a second. “Jesus Christ.”

She audibly inhales and Faris imitates it, unsure of what else to do.

“That's short notice.”

“I've been putting off telling him,” Faris says.

Rachel doesn't seem to hear. “So… I guess tonight is the last time I see you, probably.”

Faris looks at her hands, white like spiders against the black material of her dress when they unfold. Again, he repeats the motion. The moment is too delicate to speak with her words mingling with his in the air, but at the same time, it feels more sombre than it _should_ be. He's met Rachel five times, a perfect round number, and that's how it'll stay for the rest of time.

“Probably,” Faris repeats, and he realises just as soon that wasn't the right response to give. “With your work schedule, and…”

“Yeah. Don't think I'm going to that bank holiday thing, either.”

Faris had already forgotten that was on. “No. We aren't, either.”

Rachel inhales once again, eyes shut all the way so her eyelashes fan out against her cheeks. She looks like a painting of a saint, an exalted figure in a statue with the little cross hanging over her cleavage. Faris only now remembers that she's Catholic, and the silence fills with his heartbeat in his throat. Five, ten, fifteen flutters.

“So,” Rachel finally says.

The silence could have gone on for long seconds, but as soon as she breaks it, Faris realises it's only his pulse going rapidly that messed with his perception of time. Her hand touches his, white candlewax next to sandy brown, then both her small hands cover his big one. The contrast is gorgeous and terrifying, strange how they could possibly be so far apart and still so close in a twisted way. An artist's way of putting it.

Faris takes a deep breath, but the air feels too gelatinous once more. He wants to say, _It's not going to be forever_. The problem is he can't bring himself to believe that statement. He sucks in more of the heavy air through his nostrils, even if it doesn't seem to actually reach his lungs, and he doesn't dare to look back up at Rachel's face.

“This is Goodbye, then,” she says next, and it’s both a question and a statement of affirmation at once.

Faris dreads not knowing what to answer. All he can do is huff in slow breaths in the hope that his brain will stop feeling foggy. He wipes the tears on the back of his hand, grateful that Rachel didn’t point them out. Finally, he allows his eyes to flit back to her.

“I guess it is.”

He immediately wishes he could’ve said something more eloquent. Rachel’s pale face still has a glow to it even in the dim light, but it flickers like a candlelight, and Faris takes a second that’s because of his vision swimming. He wishes he could hold her hand properly, maybe give her another hug, as if the physical contact could help him find his words.

“Well…” Rachel says. “I’m very honoured to have made your acquaintance.”

Faris only nods. The air feels gelatinous around his torso, too, when he twists towards her to wrap her up in an awkward hug. She wraps her arms around his back to envelop him in turn, and Faris lets his forehead sink onto her warm shoulder. His eyes drop shut, but no tears leak out, and he doesn’t dare to squeeze her too hard.

Rachel smells like the same perfume she wore at that Sleepover, an intense combination of orchids and jasmine and the sharp venom she carries with her. Her body is solid even in his loose grip, still so much warmer than he would’ve expected her to be. For a brief second, Faris considers if things with Josh had turned out differently, if he hadn’t met Tom before he met her, if he didn’t have to leave… Then, he thinks of Josh, and that wobbly urge to cry creeps up his back again.

The moment falls apart when Rachel pulls back.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold,” Faris says. His eyes are dry. “The feeling’s mutual.”

He really, really wishes he could’ve said more than that when he pushes himself up from his place against the wall.

“I think I want to go back inside.”

–

Faris takes a few seconds to realise the screaming wasn't coming out of his dream. His brain feels pulpy, no longer asleep but not _awake_ either. A woman outside is screaming, and pressing a pillow over his ears and head won't shut her up. Faris presses his hands into the mattress, his nose and forehead flat, until he stops smelling the laundry soap and human dander of the sheets. She needs to stop.

He doesn't trust himself to put on his glasses after he's opened his eyes, the room already too bright and daunting without them. His belly has a nausea brewing inside that feels still-drunk, and at least he can be grateful that Josh's sleeping in the space by the wall tonight.

The woman won't shut up. Faris gropes for his phone charging on the desk behind the headboard, and the glow of the display illuminating the room hurts his eyes before he's even directly looking at it. Still, he presses the emergency call button and keys in 999. With his thumb hovering over the green telephone button, he peels himself from out under the duvet.

The woman screams, wails, shouts, howls, screeches, and she's not getting tired. Faris' feet find the floor, the carpet strangely gummy underneath his soles. Everything feels much gummier when you're drunk. He squints, both at the screen against the darkness and the light that's got the audacity to shine through his window, and he's not sure if it's moonlight or earliest dawn. Tonight is almost a full moon, not quite, but it stings in his eyes all the same. Faris blinks until they adjust and doesn't count along.

The world slips even more off-kilter when he actually sits up. His brain-juice sloshes, sickening like the soft insides of a watermelon. Faris has a flash of those cheesy traffic safety PSAs, the innards of the gourd splattered onto a pavement, and something inside his gullet pipe gurgles. The woman is _still_ screaming. Oh, right.

He uses a hand on the headboard to guide himself upright and is almost surprised when he doesn't feel the urge to throw up. Another slip in his head, accompanied by a sigh of the bed frame when the weight shifts. Faris would turn around to check whether Josh's still asleep, but that would also mean unnecessary movement, and his brain is still squelching with vertigo. Josh has always been a deep sleeper, and he's also _drunk_ , but probably not as drunk as Faris was. Or is. While he's waiting for the equilibrium to settle back in, a tiny snore slips out of Josh. How he hasn't woken up yet with the mayhem outside, Faris doesn't know.

At least his room is small enough that it's only three steps from where he is to the window, even if, with the sickness shaking his knees, it's actually five. Outside is too brilliant for whatever early hour it is. Faris opens the window to poke his head out and see where the noise is coming from. But he doesn't see it.

His hand that isn't bracing himself on the windowsill is still clutching his phone with the three digits still ready to dial. He knows if he can hear it they must definitely be close, the woman and whoever else, the reason why she's still screaming at the top of her lungs, struggling. Fighting back. Faris can't make out any individual words, still, but his thumb _still_ hovers over the green button. He doesn't trust his dried-up mouth to speak on the phone, but he's got his lines ready in the back of his brain, _someone's being attacked_. He knows the names of all the streets in the vicinity, in any direction it could come from. He even remembers his name for when the operator asks it.

Finally, before his thumb can connect, the screaming dies. She's gone. And Faris is an unregistered Vampire, two gaping holes in his teeth so he couldn't hide it if he wanted to. Even if he doesn't think the woman is _dead_ , he'd be the first suspect, so he locks his phone and shuts the window. All the walls here are thin, anyway. Someone else will have heard, and they'll have called 999. Someone must have. For a lack of pockets in his pants, Faris sets the phone down on the bottom of the mattress. His gut wobbles again.

–

Josh only stirs awake when Faris crawls back into bed. The snore turns into a rumbling hum over the squeak of the bedsprings, and the lump of his body stirs to life in slow-motion.

Faris' automatic reflex is to shush him. Even if the rest of the flat isn't _cold_ , the toasty warm under the duvet seeps right into his legs and torso as he shimmies in, a pleasantly melty sensation.

“Keep sleeping,” he whispers into the general direction of Josh's twitchy face.

Maybe he's waking up, or he's having a really vivid dream. Faris can't tell the difference, but all he wills for is to go back to sleep as soon as he can. He doesn't have work in the morning, at least. The bed grunts some more as he settles in, tucking his feet into the bottom of the comforter. Josh yawns, eyes still shut.

“It's nothing. Just go back to sleep.”

Josh sniffs through his nostrils. One of his eyes pops open, then the other, pupils blown huge. “Hey.”

“Sorry I woke you up.” Faris needs more duvet, but if he moves closer to Josh, he'll only brush his cold feet against Josh's warm ones. He wedges one arm under a pillow to get comfortable instead. “Don't mind it.”

Josh makes an unidentifiable noise and bites the end of his thumb. “It's okay,” he says. His voice sounds a lot less tattered than Faris' must do, but in all fairness, he's got a much better alcohol tolerance. He'll never know what a _blood hangover_ feels like, either. “Did you just throw up?”

Faris shakes his head, but it's too sluggish, his head buried too far into the pillow. “Just went to the bathroom.”

He didn't think he would be sick in the first place, and all he managed to spit into the sink was big globs of musty saliva.

Josh exhales. “'cause you look like shit.” His warm hand fits itself neatly around Faris' cold one, pale against dusky even in the shades of grey. Faris' vision is still blurry, and he'd be concerned if he didn't remember it's only because he's not wearing his contacts.

“I had another night terror,” he says. Technically speaking, it's not a lie.

“What was it about?”

“I don't remember.”

His position, one elbow under his head, is starting to get uncomfortable. Faris wrestles the pillow again so he can put both his hands towards Josh, and Josh takes the other one as well. A connection, a bridge between them or perhaps a Cat's Cradle that's made of flesh and bone rather than thread. For some reason, his brain flashes back to the ward again.

And he laughs.

“Are you okay?”

Faris says, “I was just thinking. When I was staying in the hospital, when I was seventeen, we did this exercise in group therapy.”

Josh says, “Okay,” and again, his tone of voice is concerned but not condescending.

“Yeah. We had this big ball of yarn, and the person who was holding the yarn had to talk about their feelings. And if someone wanted to respond, you had to throw it over to them, with the beginning of the thread still in your hand. So by the end of the session you'd have like this big web woven between everyone.”

“Like a cat ladder,” Josh says.

Faris almost laughs again when he squeezes Josh's two hands. “Yeah. I was just thinking, our hands reminded me of that kind of thing.”

Josh smiles. The moment turns too quiet, too serene for a second, but Faris knows he can't possibly fall back asleep. His brain has stopped sloshing, and now it's focussed entirely on this one moment, like encasing it in sticky amber.

“We could do like… Group therapy. If you want to.”

“What?”

“Like talking about our feelings. Like, a secret-telling session.”

Faris wants to laugh, but his body is too tired still. He's not sure group therapy works like that, with only two of them, actually. “Okay,” he says. “You go first.”

Josh looks at him like he's about to question why.

“You're the therapist. The one who suggested it.” Faris thinks back to the first time he saw an actual therapist, the old strategies to get him to open up. “You're gonna have to earn my trust first.”

“Okay.” Josh blinks, and it feels almost in slow-motion. The whole moment does, in a way, every twitch and breath and movement in his face amplified.

Faris may be still drunk.

“You know my girl name,” Josh starts. “I always used to tell people my middle name was Sophie, right?”

Faris says, “Right.” He doesn't tend to think about that there used to be a time when Josh was someone else. Still, his brain automatically fills in the blanks. “Evelyn Sophie Hayward.”

“Don't say that.” Josh squeezes his hand, hard enough to hurt a little bit. “But yeah. My parents wanted to call me that, but then a couple weeks before I was born, one of my great-aunts or something suddenly died. I think it was my dad who insisted we should name me after her, in her honour. It was his aunt.”

Faris would nod to signify he's listening, but his head is sunken too far into the pillow still. Instead, he only hums.

“So they named me Edith instead, like, that was my middle name on all my documents before I changed it. And I hated it.”

Josh's face has the grave severity of a begrudged child on it, and Faris doesn't know if he should laugh.

“So I used to tell all my friends it was Sophie, 'cause my ma thought it was a stupid name, too, and she told me the story of it, so I just never let them see my passport or my license or anything. At roll call in school and with my lecturers, I always told them it was Sophie. There was an error at admin, they got my name wrong.”

Josh makes a noise through his nose like a choked-off laugh, and still, Faris isn't sure if he should join in. He wants to, at least.

“Louise got off easy, her middle name's Marie.”

This time, Faris actually allows himself to laugh low in his throat. “Is that it? Your secret to gain my trust as my therapist is that you hated your middle name. Which isn't even your name anymore.”

“I didn't say I was a good therapist.” Josh pulls one hand out of the cradle to scratch his eye for a second. His eyeliner has smudged from where it was last night to look more like a bruise. “Your go.”

“Okay.”

Faris waits for Josh's hand to rejoin his. The spaces between his fingers already feel sweaty, too-close with Josh's heartbeat drumming in them, but the rhythm at least gives him something to focus on while he thinks of what to say. He shuts his eyes and opens them again, and then he blinks four more times. Behind his eyelids, Josh's face slowly curls up into concern.

“Faris?”

“I can't swim.”

Immediately after he's said it, he wants to laugh. He's got a secret sitting on his tongue that's so big he can't possibly tell Josh, and all that came out was the fact he can't swim. Maybe that's how Josh felt about his middle name, too.

“I've seen you swim,” Josh says back. “When we went to Brighton Beach, last summer…”

Faris shakes his head, and this time, the pillow doesn't drag the movement down. “I only went in up to my waist. I don't know how to actually swim.”

Josh, somehow, looks like he doesn't believe him.

“I had those bad dreams about drowning when I was a kid. Eight or nine. Maybe about once a week or every two weeks.”

Every few months, he realises that's a much closer estimate. Faris doesn't think he's even had that dream more often than five times.

“So you never learned,” Josh says, like he wants to take the burden of saying it from Faris himself.

Faris presses his lips into a line and hopes it's enough to indicate that statement's correct. Maybe he should explain the reason behind the dreams, at least, but he thinks that's something Josh won't understand despite not being related to being a Vampire at all.

“The nightmares, that started when things got really bad for my dad's family, before they had to leave home.”

“You mean in the Middle East?”

Faris says, “West Bank,” and it feels like he barely gets to finish the second word.

Because Josh cuts him off. “Faris,” he says, back to a whisper. “That's…” He doesn't need to say anything other than that, but he sounds like he understands perfectly.

“Yeah.” Faris strokes the soft back of Josh's hand with one thumb. “Your go.”

Josh nods. “My go.” With his brow twisted, he looks like he now needs to think of a secret, too. One to match Faris', maybe.

“Take your time.”

For that, Josh's face melts into almost a smile. “Okay. You know how I've told you I got bullied in school.”

Without meaning to, Faris' eyes automatically flit over to the bar code scars on Josh's arm. He doesn't think Josh ever explicitly made the connection, but he can guess. His legs itch under the duvet, and his throat tightens with the same sensation that old memories bring.

Josh exhales. “It was way worse when I was a kid, before I started cutting myself like an emo. Like, I was ten.”

Faris doesn't dare to breathe with how tense and tight Josh's face has suddenly gone, like with that breath, he expelled all the excess air that kept him puffed up.

“I was this fat, short, ugly stump-person, and all the other kids wanted to make sure I couldn't forget it,” Josh says. “At least they were all poor so they couldn't bully me over that.”

It's meant to be a joke, but Faris can't laugh.

Josh inhales through his nose, but it doesn't seem to reach his lungs. At the very least, he remains deflated. “It got to a point where I just didn't want to go anymore.”

Faris can see him breathe, but he can't see a heave in his ribcage. He can't feel Josh's heartbeat anymore, either, but that's entirely because of his own booming in his chest and throat.

“I didn't want to die, like you did. I just pretended I was ill, and my ma believed me, and then I started wishing that I'd actually get ill.” Josh's eyes look swimmy and liquid, encased behind a glass pane made of tears. He's only cried once while Faris could see, but Faris doubts he'll do it again now. “I started wishing that I could have cancer, so I could get out of there and so I could lose all of that extra weight. Like, I actually wanted to have cancer.”

Faris doesn't know what to possibly say to that. “Did you actually…” He cuts himself off before he can put his foot as deeply in his mouth as he was about to.

“I never had cancer, obviously,” Josh says. “But in year six, over Christmas break, I got glandular fever 'cause one of my cousins had it before, so I stayed home in bed for like two months.” He almost sounds happy, a fake, seeing-the-good-in-the-bad happy. “I was smart enough they didn't make me redo the year, and I lost most of the excess weight. So I guess it worked out in the end.”

Faris smiles back meekly, an understanding that Josh's story is over now. His throat feels even heavier with the unsaid facts between them now. A little, he thinks back to before this all happened, when his biggest concern was still telling Josh that he's turning into a Vampire. Compared to, _I have to leave you forever and live off the grid in Scotland_ because _I'm a Vampire_ , it seems like such an insignificant thing to worry about.

“I guess my one is connected to that,” Faris says instead. “The bullied in school bit.”

“Public school kids,” Josh says.

Again, the pillow keeps Faris from fully shaking his head. “That was before, when I still went to school in Hull. It was half the reason I wanted to go to boarding school to begin with.”

Josh only looks at him like he couldn't possibly understand, even if he tried. Faris instantly thinks back to his comment on how everyone at his old school was equally poor, and then to the earlier conversation they had back in his sister's room. Maybe Faris' secret isn't truly connected to his.

“Like, at Rugby there was a boy in my year who was an Indian prince or something, and then some regular kids who had scholarships, so I didn't really stick out. Mainly I just made no friends 'cause I was really quiet, but it was… It was a big improvement from Hull.”

The look on Josh's face doesn't exactly clear up, but it implores Faris to keep talking.

“I don't know if you've ever been to Hull, but there was probably five other kids in my whole primary school who weren't white.” This time, it's not an exaggeration at all. “I can't even remember how many times I got asked whether or not my dad was a terrorist.”

Faris doesn't have the nerve to look directly into Josh's eyes. He looks at Josh's nose instead, his face that's returned to a wobblier version of its usual shape.

“Sorry if this is rude,” Josh says, then. He sounds, maybe, like he's just as scared of putting his foot in his mouth, which is a bit of a comfort. “But back then, did you already want to… You know?”

Even without the grimace Josh pulls, Faris can fill in the blank easily. He shakes his head. “That came later. The voices didn't start until way after that.”

Josh does a movement that could almost be a nod, and he thumbs over both of Faris' hands at once. Still, he looks like he could cry, but after a few blinks, the built-up tears dispel into a bit of moisture at the edges of his eyes.

“Okay?” Faris asks.

Josh sniffs and nods. “Sorry.”

“It's fine.” Faris squeezes Josh's hand in his, careful not to hurt. “Your go.”

“I had sex with another guy when we weren't talking last month.”

Josh says it in the same exact tone he used to say, _I wished I could have cancer_. Maybe for that reason Faris' heart does a heavy hiccup in his throat, and he reflexively bites his lips.

“That's not…” he starts. What it isn't, he doesn't actually know, so he cuts himself off. “We weren't technically together then, right?”

“I couldn't stop thinking about it,” Josh insists. “It was only meant to be a sexting thing, for laughs, 'cause I was bored, but then I went over his house and we actually did it. And it made me feel really bad for some reason.”

Faris can't exhale. He doesn't know what to say beyond, _It's fine_ , which, judged by Josh's face, it definitely isn't. Besides, he's sure he's already said that. In essence.

“Like, I just felt like I was cheating on you, after you were already my fake boyfriend by that point. Just weird and wrong.” Josh sniffs yet again, but he sounds less like he's about to cry and more like his nose is clogged now. “And to be honest, I think that's the reason I got so jealous when you just went off with Rachel Kitty-Cat earlier tonight.”

Faris swallows. He'd rather not think back to that conversation, especially not when he knows that now would be the ideal moment to bring up that topic. At the same time, though, he feels that Josh has already moved on from the secret-telling session. And there's no ideal moment to tell Josh they might never see each other again. “You know already what I said about her,” he says instead. “She's thirty-four, and posh, and she's a schoolteacher.”

 _Choir director_ , he corrects himself immediately afterwards, but he figures it's approximately the same anyway.

Josh seems pacified. “What did you guys talk about? Outside?”

“Vee stuff,” Faris says. It's technically not a lie. His hands are starting to hurt, so he disentangles the Cat's Cradle and cracks his joints experimentally.

Josh pulls a face.

“My hands hurt,” Faris explains.

He shuffles closer, and Josh turns around to assume a proper little-spoon position instead. The back of his hair smells like cider and club air, still. Still, he's warm, even hotter than the air trapped by the duvet.

“Just so you know,” Faris says into Josh's ear. “I'm not mad or anything you slept with that guy. And I'd much rather be with you than with Rachel Kitty-Cat or anyone else, ever.”

What scares him about that statement is how true it is above anything else. Rachel has twinkly eyes and perky breasts and her air of authority, but Josh has wonky teeth and a trail of fur growing up his belly, and he’s got a warmth that makes Faris want to crawl up to him and stay forever. But even with the physical heat of him in his arms, Faris knows he can't.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, okay,” Josh says back.

For that moment, when he shuts his eyes and untenses his muscles, Faris reckons it really is _okay_. He presses his chest tighter to Josh's back to sync up both their heartbeats, knowing he doesn't need to say anything else, and he doesn't think about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two songs that play at the club are "Love Shack" ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SOryJvTAGs)) by The B-52s and "I Try to Talk to You" ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTFf8jqPNu0)) by Hercules & Love Affair.


	16. heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hover over Arabic for translation.

“ _Extremist Movement Hits Out at Moderate Vee Community in Social Club Attack_.” Faris squints at the screen of his phone, seemingly too bright again. This time around, he's almost sure it's just the weed.

“What?”

Faris stretches one leg towards the wall until his knee pops and tries to refocus his eyes. Rhys runs a workshop in the shop every four weeks, between the Sleepover Saturdays. Today, it's _Four in a Bed: An Intro to Healthy Polyamorous Relationships_ , which means Faris has been given most of the day off from work.

“ _Police forces are investing a potential case of Vampiric terrorism in the London Borough of Hackney_ ,” he reads from the article. His voice comes out slow like sticky molasses, even to his own ears. The letters still look slightly blurry or maybe the opposite, too sharp, but he can't be bothered with taking out his contacts. Still, he reads the next part silently until his eyes adjust.

“ _Historically speaking, Hackney has been a major Vee hub within the capital. In the ethnically diverse borough, the recently opened Moth Club was, according to owner Aldon Hill, 'an attempt to bridge the gaps between culture and subculture.'_ ”

Josh makes a noise. “What's that you're reading?”

Faris glances over to where he's sat on the floor by the bed, one elbow on the mattress. One of his cheeks is resting against the side of the penis bong.

The link he clicked on went to BuzzFeed News, he's pretty sure, but Faris scrolls up just to verify it. “BuzzFeed.”

Beneath the headline and blurb, the fine print reads _AUGUST 27_ 2015\. Today is the twenty-ninth. The article was posted two days ago, Thursday…

The ball, after a slow approach, very suddenly drops. Faris says, “Oh, fuck.”

Josh, again, asks, “What?”

“Nothing.”

_In a fashion that mirrors previous attacks both within the neighbourhood and Greater London as a whole, parts of a body were found outside a Vampire-owned pub and bar._ Faris reads the sentence for a second time, but it's too familiar already, like getting caught in an obsessive loop. _The victim is presumed as a white woman in her mid-twenties to late thirties, but has yet to be identified. No missing person reports match her profile._

“Nothing,” Josh repeats. His voice sounds positively baked, as if his insides have gone soft like the centre of a roast potato in the oven.

Nothing, except Faris knows precisely where the woman was only hours or possibly minutes before her dismemberment. He almost called 999. That realisation he just had makes him want to laugh. So, he laughs.

Faris turns his phone off and lets it drop onto the mattress, and he looks up at the ceiling and laughs. He laughs and laughs, since he really can't do much of anything else. His belly shakes and his ribcage tenses and untenses like a pair of bellows, and his throat jumps. He just laughs.

“You're baked,” Josh points out in his melted voice. He sounds slower, too, but not possibly as slow as Faris' voice comes out. “What's so funny?”

Time to stop laughing. Faris' face feels hot when he readjusts himself to cross both wrists behind his head. Like this, he's got a much better view of Josh. “ _You're_ baked.”

“I'm not.” Josh rubs his cheek against the dick bong again. “I was just… Lost in thought.”

If he laughed again, it would make the fake laugh from just before feel ten thousand times worse. Faris doesn't want to know how many fives those are.

“D'you mind putting that down on the floor? I don't want any cock water spillage on my sheets.”

The reason Faris asked Josh to bring over his bong and weed in the first place was so he wouldn't feel anything to begin with. Being baked helps with counting, the fives in general and down the hours. He's dimly aware it's less than three days now, but he's not going to keep a close eye on the clock.

Josh hums a buzzing sound and moves the bong so he can shuffle his whole torso onto the foot of the bed.

“I was thinking,” he says.

Yesterday, while Josh was in the shower, Faris thought about pulling his large suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. The weed's all smoked up now, and even if it weren't, he's already too baked. Just not baked enough.

Faris makes a noise to indicate he's listening.

“My ma called me while you were at work this morning.” He coughs. “Since Louise is moving out for uni in like two weeks.”

“She's going to uni?” Faris asks. He realises immediately how badly formulated that question was, so he adds, “What course is she doing?”

“UCL, same as me. She's doing like… Social studies, I think?”

Faris, for lack of anything else to say, says, “That's really cool.”

Josh makes a noise of accomplishment. “Yeah. Ma was saying they're doing a going-away party before, before my dad's driving her up to London. She wanted to know if I'm bringing _Ferris_.”

“Faris,” Faris corrects by force of habit.

“You know I've told you about my ma.”

Josh _oof_ s when he picks himself off the floor and sits down in the opposite corner of the bed. He folds his legs with deliberation, and he stretches one arm down to where Faris can only assume the bong is standing erect on the carpet.

“Willy stays where he is,” Faris decidedly says. “Your ma who hated your sister's Asian boyfriend?”

Josh makes an undefinable noise halfway between _being told he can't keep cuddling the dick_ and, _Yeah, my ma's a racist_. Still, he stretches both arms forward and cracks his wrists before he settles into a slouch. “Yeah, still… I think you made a good impression on her. Plus my dad really liked you.”

Faris only grunts in response. He probably would've liked Josh's dad just fine in turn, if Josh hadn't told him that one particular detail. Still, he's not going to… “Wonder if your dad will still like me if he finds out I'm one of those bloodsucking haemos he hates so much.”

He definitely didn't mean to say that.

“Obviously we don't have to go,” Josh says. “I've really had enough of my family for a while.”

Faris, despite himself, laughs. Like clockwork, precisely what he thought would happen happens, and the pre-emptive guilt creeps in again. At this point, he's not sure whether the _pre-emptive_ modifier still applies. “Same.”

“I was just thinking,” Josh says for the second time. “If we do go, I think I'm ready to come out to my parents.”

Faris' head feels packed with cotton balls. Like the fact that he's still baked, technically, has just caught up with him, any response he may have had parches in his dry mouth. He stretches his other leg, until his foot touches Josh's knee.

“Like, I don't care how they'll react at this point, I'm an adult. I'm just tired of… Being Evelyn, I guess?”

Even if his mouth was working, Faris wouldn't know what to say in response. Obviously, he knows what he should say, possibly, but he can't even imagine being in Josh's situation. Not that he hasn't tried. His eyes wander up to the ceiling again, unfocussed, and he makes another noise for Josh to go on.

Faris tells it by the flick of the lighter when Josh lights a fag. The window's open, obviously, and even if the mob boss doesn't like it, the smoke entering the wallpaper will be the next tenant's problem. He'd ask to bum one, if he thought it would at all help.

“I just want to be like, I'm a boy and my name's Joshua. And Faris is my boyfriend, but we’re gay.”

Faris lolls his head on the pillow and his hands, and his gaze lands on Josh again. He's letting the ash of his fag drip out onto the windowsill.

Once again, the ball drops, slowly, then all at once. Faris can see it trundle towards the edge before it falls down and bounces off the ground. He could laugh again, but instead, he stretches his hand to beckon Josh's fag.

“Cheers.”

Faris switches the cigarette from one hand to the other, so ingrained to hold it with his right hand. Maybe he would think about that more in-depth if he wasn't about to say what he's about to say. With his left arm wedged behind his head again, he takes a deep drag and exhales an amorphous blue cloud up to the ceiling. Against the light green colour of the walls, it makes a nice contrast.

Focus. Focus, focus, focus, focus.

To the ceiling, Faris says, “That's not going to happen.”

For what must be the fifth time, Josh asks, “What?!”

This time, it's clear it's not a matter of understanding.

Faris feels like he shouldn't be having this conversation while lying down. Actually, he can't remember when or how he planned for them to have it in the first place. As he sits up, Josh regards him with a look in his eyes Faris has never seen before, a look of scepticism, and for the first time ever, judgement.

Deep breath. Once again, Faris wistfully remembers when his biggest problem was still telling Josh about his CBHS. He sucks on the fag for a second time, and his eyes flit down to the bedspread, the far wall and the corner, then the ceiling. Finally, they settle on Josh's nose.

“Here's your fag back.”

Presumably out of reflex, Josh says, “Thank you.” Still, he sounds like he's only waiting for Faris to say something else. Like an answer to his question, for instance.

Faris can't possibly sit comfortably on this bed. He switches from having his knees up and his feet planted on the mattress to Indian style. Maybe he should have kept the fag.

“I wasn't sure when or how to tell you about this,” he says, and it's completely true, but it feels like a mere buffer before the real conversation. He wishes he had something to fidget with, and he looks down at their knees, Josh's one leg folded under the other. His knuckles crack.

Josh doesn't say anything.

“I'm going away very soon.” His throat feels choked once again, but without the dryness this time around. Quite the opposite, actually. “Scotland. It's… You remember the guy who turned me? I'm going to live on his family's farm.”

He feels that's enough information to not make it sound dodgy, but still so vague that it won't violate enclave standards. Whatever those are. The wetness that coats his throat seems to surround his whole head now, and he can't hear his heartbeat. His brain swims too much for him to count the seconds.

Finally, Josh breathes out. The water seems to have gotten into his voice as well when he says, “I seriously want to hit you again.”

The skin around his nose and cheeks is already lighting up with splotches.

Faris has forgotten everything he might have wanted to say in this situation.

“Why did it not occur to you to bring that up sooner?”

Faris has never heard Josh sound so feeble before. Somehow, it knocks the breath out of him much more than Josh raising his voice would have.

“I wasn't planning on this, you know?” he asks. “I said I was gonna go with him when we weren't talking… After I ran away from you outside the shop, remember?”

In that second, even faking eye contact with Josh is overwhelming. Faris buries his face in his hands instead.

“Are you crying right now?” Josh asks from somewhere behind the barrier of his fingers. Even though he's not covering his ears at all, it still only halfway reaches Faris' ears like he's wearing one earbud.

Faris makes a noise of denial and shakes his head. Like breathing into a paper bag, he regains enough of his composure to loosen his hands. “I thought it would've been my only option, I was gonna be a farm boy. With free food and a place to sleep, and blood to drink from the cattle.”

Josh exhales heavily.

Faris can feel his Adam’s apple so heavy in his throat he doesn't think it would be possible for him to breathe in turn. “I just lost my job at the time, so I didn't think I could get another one… And I couldn't work at BedMates, not with you in the shop.” He doesn't know if he really wants to say the next sentence. “It was going with him or living in a council flat outside the city and starving on my two shots a week.”

A tremor overcomes his back when he even thinks about that scenario, equal amounts despair and fear. The sound that forces itself from his mouth is a croak, but no actual tears leak out with it.

“You could've taken it back,” Josh whispers. Somehow, it's a comfort that neither of them seem to be crying. “Or you could've just moved back with your parents, they've got money.”

“I couldn't have.” Faris' throat is so choked that finishing the sentence and swallowing the full stop physically hurts. “Even if my dad wasn't going to disown me for being gay, he definitely would for being a مصّاص دماء” If it's possible, that word hurts even more. Still, he can't stop talking now, not with the brick jammed down his windpipe. “I never planned for this to happen, to have anything that's keeping me here. To be your _boyfriend_.”

After that, the words break down into a shapeless whine, a pitch much higher than he would've thought capable. Faris' hands jam their heels into his cheeks, squashing down his nose, and then directly into his eyeballs until the colours explode in his vision. His fingers pull at the strands of his fringe, and he can't even feel the shame. All that he feels is raw, hotcold desperation up his back, and once again all the moisture is gone from his body. He doesn't know how much time passes like that.

When he looks up the next time, Josh is gone. Faris supposes he deserves it.

“Faz?”

Turns out Josh merely got up from the bed while he wasn't looking. He's standing on the thin strip of floor between the bed and the wall now, and his face remains as wobbly as it was just now.

“Thought you'd left me for a second.”

“I would never.” Josh shakes his head. “Come here?”

Faris fully expects Josh to slap him this time around. At the very least, he would deserve a good smack, too.

“Hey.”

All Josh does is beckon him into a hug. Faris curves his spine and lets his head drop to Josh's shoulder immediately, too worn-out to keep holding himself up. Josh makes another huffing noise in response, but his arms wrap around Faris' middle just as soon. Faris rings his arms around Josh's waist in turn. He feels the same, still, sturdy with a soft middle and a warmth under his skin that goes down all the way to the core. In contrast, he wonders whether his own body feels any different now, asides from the shakes that rock up into his shoulders. He didn’t realise when that started.

“Are you crying?”

Faris twitches his eyelids without opening them, the motion of crying without any liquid coming out. “Don’t think I am.”

“Good,” Josh whispers back, but his voice sounds much shakier than normally. “I couldn’t deal with that.”

“Are you?”

“Not yet.”

Josh holds him tightly, but it’s different, not a squeeze but rather an entrapment. Maybe, like if he doesn’t let go, he’ll be able to keep Faris here. Faris wishes he could, at least.

“I couldn't stay here,” he says, and his voice wobbles as much as his insides and shoulders and legs do. If Josh lets go now, he'll drop to the floor. “It's not… Things are getting worse. I can't have my name on a government registry.”

He doesn't say more than that, and he hopes he doesn't need to. His heartbeat suddenly feels too apparent, a hiccuping, heavy pulse, but Josh remains unmoving against him, a warm, heavy boulder. The room is so silent around them that Faris feels trapped in amber. Neither of them dare to speak a word. Once again, he can't bring himself to count along the seconds.

“I just wish you could’ve told me earlier,” Josh finally says.

Faris wants to say, _I didn’t know how to._ What comes out, however, sounds less like a sentence and more like another low noise of despair.

Josh doesn’t acknowledge it. “But I didn’t expect for this to happen either,” he says against Faris’ shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same way about me. I thought you couldn’t like me as more than your best mate.”

Faris would swallow if his throat wasn’t too jammed to allow any movement. He wants to say, _Josh_. Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh, that’s the only concrete thought that consumes him in that second. Other than that, all he can feel is a heavy, grimy loss in the depth of his belly. It’s the exact opposite of profound.

Neither of them speak after that. Josh isn’t crying, still, and once again the moment seems caught in stasis, without heartbeat or breath. Faris couldn't possibly tell how much time passes like that. As much as he wants it to end, he also wants to never move again.

Josh is the first to break the embrace, and Faris lets his arms drop just as soon. When they finally look at each other again, Josh’s face remains splotchy, but without the crumples of crying. Faris can’t bear to look at his eyes still.

“I think I’ll head back to mine now,” Josh says, once again in that feeble voice.

Faris can’t think of how it sounds to his ears except for _wrong_. Maybe he should actually say something now. All he can get past the blockage, however, is, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Josh repeats, like he’s daring him to say more than that.

“I leave on Tuesday morning,” Faris finally says. Still, he knows that’s definitely not enough.

Josh says, “Alright. I’ll…” His mouth distorts and suddenly gets stuck, a premature end to the sentence. Faris doesn’t raise his gaze to further up than that. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.”

Faris doesn’t know if he can reach in and hold Josh one more time. Instead, he sticks out his hand. He squeezes Josh's hand, as warm and calloused as ever, but it only lasts for a second. The contrast between their skin tones seems much bigger of a second, and Faris knows it's strange to focus on that now. Maybe, on some level, it makes perfect sense.

“I'll just go make myself a cup of tea,” he says.

Josh nods.

The moment should end, but it doesn't. Faris walks Josh out the door of his room, and they stand in the living room by the front door for a few split seconds. The silence is short but different this time, crackling like either of them have more to say but don't know what. At least, Faris doesn't know what to say.

“See you around?”

“Yeah,” Faris says. His hands stay buried in the pockets of his jeans, his eye level somewhere between Josh's nose and his neck. “See you.”

“See you.”

Josh nods one more time, and he's out of the door. Faris stares at the wood for a few more seconds after it's pushed closed from the outside and the lock has clicked shut. At least Josh didn’t slam it closed, Faris supposes. The feeling that settles in his body is equal parts the slimy sadness from earlier and its opposite, a dried out, dusty sensation. He's reminded of the rot that depression brings with it, but this time, it's a lot more metaphorical.

Finally, when his eyes are beginning to feel dry, Faris remembers to blink, an exact five times. He ventures over into the kitchen and turns on the kettle, and he makes himself a cup of tea.

–

Everything Faris owns fits neatly into his suitcase and his backpack. All the pots and kitchenware he brought with him when he moved in, he's donated to the nearest charity shop. Most of his books and records are in a cardboard box with a post-it note reading _JAMES THIS IS FOR YOU_ stuck to it, and there's another post-it note on his shelf in the fridge. The only things he hasn't packed up yet are the sheets on his bed and the soap and shampoo from the bathroom. His change of clothes for tomorrow sits folded on top of the desk next to his MacBook.

He's cooked himself one last microwave lamb curry, and now, all that's left for him to do is kill time until he can go to bed. Faris pokes his plastic fork into the lukewarm mash of meat and rice while he watches the Netflix buffer screen, and he reaches for a fag from the packet he finally bought. Maybe he'll spend the night binge-watching movies until he can make the journey to the bus station tomorrow, although he starts to feel that maybe The Birdcage was a too topical choice of film. On screen, the camera now pans towards the glitzy South Beach coastline and into the club, and Faris sucks on his cigarette.

Tonight is a bank holiday Monday, all things considered, and he's sure Rhys is doing something to celebrate. If he'd checked or asked earlier, perhaps, he would consider going.

Josh did send him a text last night, _just so you know im not going to that play party rhys is doing on my own. Im mad at you but not that mad_ , followed by the broken-heart emoji and a few more cryptic ones, aubergine, chains, then the little syringe squirting a red liquid that's probably meant to be blood. Faris opened the message but didn't respond, for a lack of knowing what to say. After that, he didn't receive any more signs of life from Josh, or Rhys or Harry, for that matter.

The drag queens on the movie stage finish up their performance, and Faris suddenly realises with disgust that the trail of ash from his fag has come off and landed in his curry. Not that he was really hungry to begin with. He takes another hit from the cigarette and pushes the plastic ready meal container out of the way, and he realises he's seen this movie too many times.

Maybe he should check his phone. Just in case Tom has texted him about their travel plans for tomorrow, or in case his enclave elders have changed their mind about letting Faris move in. Whether that would be an eleventh-hour miracle or a curse, however, Faris isn't sure of that when he pulls the phone from his pocket and switches the screen on. Instead, he's got a message from Rhys.

_Josh told us everything. Come to ours? X_

The last time Faris texted Rhys was to tell them that he won't come into work anymore, but he never got a reply, and he dreads to think about why that might have been. He takes in a deep breath before he extinguishes his fag in his remaining mug, one he stole from James long ago. A feeling washes over his back while he holds the inhale in his lungs, but he doesn't know if it's relief or the opposite. Faris checks the clock, it's 8:25 PM. The next bus goes in four minutes.

_I'll be over by 9_

Faris pauses the movie and unplugs his earbuds, and he shuts the laptop. All he has to do is pull on his boots and jacket, and dump the cigarette butts from the mug and the ashy curry in the bin, but he won't bother with running when there's another bus in less than ten minutes.

Tonight is a mild night, late enough in the year that dusk has already fallen. When Faris walks down the road to the bus stop, he almost considers walking the whole way to BedMates, but instead, he merely lights another fag. London never truly gets dark with all the light pollution above the city, merely filtered through a dim blue. Faris looks up at the wispy full moon while he waits, and he thinks about the black night sky over Scotland in contrast, spangled with actual stars instead of the navigation lights of aeroplanes. He doesn't know if he could get used to that.

–

When Faris arrives, after he's let himself into the flat and taken his boots off at the top of the stairs, they're all standing in front of the dining table. Rhys, Harry, and even Josh.

Faris says, “Hey.”

He doesn't know what else to say. The living space is dim, flickering candles as the only source of light to give everything a warm, serene glow, but at the same time, it gives the situation an even more surreal quality than it already has.

Rhys is the first to step forward and wrap him up in a hug. “Hey,” they say back, and they press a silent kiss to each of his cheeks. “We heard about what you're… You're moving away.” They've already said that.

“We wanted to give you a nice send-off,” Harry adds from where she's standing on her crutches.

“Yeah, we… You know, since you couldn't make it to the party last night,” Rhys says, a bright, innocent smile on their face, but even Faris can tell it's fake. How much Josh told them of what he said, he doesn't want to know that.

Harry adds, “So we’re throwing you a going-away party.” She looks so much like Rhys in that second and even sounds like them, it's scary. “It was all a bit short notice, obviously, we phoned your friend, Rachel, and she was really sad she couldn't come, 'cause of her work schedule…”

“No, no,” Faris cuts in.

Only now does he really take in the room around them, the bunting and garlands hung from the ceiling and the shiny helium balloons floating between them. For being so short-notice, they all obviously put a lot of effort into the decoration. He can't help but feel it's maybe a little too cheerful, but then, Rhys has always had a flair for the dramatic.

“No, no, no. It's perfect.”

Both of the Webbs smile back at him in near-perfect synchronisation.

Faris looks over at Josh, who's been conspicuously silent since he stepped in. Josh isn't smiling, and without meaning to, Faris realises he's the only one in the room who isn't. But he's not frowning, either.

“Hey,” Faris finally says after Josh has glared at him for half a second.

Josh says, “Hey.”

Rhys says, “What do you say, guys? Let's celebrate.”

That, they do.

Rhys orders them all Domino's for dinner, one pizza with blood-based sauce and one without. For dessert, they bring out a sticky chocolate layer cake that's clearly from Tesco, but Faris ends up having three slices and licking the stray icing from his plate. While they eat, Josh grabs his Cards Against Humanity deck, and they drink wine and Rhys puts on girl group albums on their old record player.

The whole time, they chatter, they joke and laugh and tell old stories, and like back in that hospital room, time seems turned back by a few months. As if Faris was never a Vampire, Harry was never attacked and Rhys never found a body, and as if Josh… The one thing that's amiss from making it seem _normal_ is that Josh looks through him as if Faris wasn't there, or as if he'd been reduced to merely a piece of furniture.

When Faris speaks, Josh laughs for just a few split seconds shorter than the Webbs do, and every response is cut-off and shallow, a more deliberate edge to it than Josh's usual sneer. Faris knows him well enough to know it's fully on purpose. Towards the end of their game, the black card reads, _I drink to forget_. Faris plays _Congenital Bloodbourne Haemovore Syndrome_ , and Josh is the only one around the table who doesn't laugh. Even when Harry correctly guesses it was Faris' card and makes him winner of the round, the air around the table noticeably changes, like the static of an incoming thunderstorm.

Almost as if he and Josh had never been more than friends, but once again, Faris has to wonder whether or not they're still friends at all.

In the end, after Rhys suggested a movie and Faris wanted to actually watch The Birdcage, it's past midnight, and Faris decides it's time to leave.

“My bus to Glasgow goes at eight. I should better get home, get some sleep…” He can't even imagine going to sleep. The only reason he says that is to convince everyone else he doesn't truly want to leave. Not that he does.

“Alright, so…” Rhys starts.

“I'll see you around. Might pop down into London at some point.” Tom's in London all the time, so maybe he'll be allowed to tag along sometime. Immediately after he's thought that, he remembers that Tom is friends with Rhys, too, and technically, that's the main reason he's in this situation.

“Oh, that's… That's great,” Rhys says, the same exalted whisper they had when Harry came back from the hospital.

Faris definitely can't deal with the thought of them bursting into tears, so he gestures for them to come closer so he can pull them into a hug and shut them up. Rhys is the skinniest person he's ever met, probably, but still they feel so much steadier than he does at the moment. He inhales their floral perfume, the faint smell of food that hasn't faded from them yet. When they invariably rub their face into his t-shirt and the fabric comes away wet, Faris doesn't even mind that much.

“Goodbye, Faris,” Rhys finally whispers to him after they've moved away, and the only indication they were crying is a pearly shimmer under their eyes.

Once again, they kiss his cheeks, and then they nod over to the sofa.

“You don't have to stand up,” Faris insists when Harry struggles to pick herself off the ugly yellow couch, but Rhys helps her onto her crutches just as soon.

Faris has seen Rhys cry plenty of times. He doesn't think there's a movie in existence they haven't cried at, and if there is, he wasn't there to witness it. Even in The Birdcage earlier tonight when Nathan Lane and Robin Williams were having one of their spats, they were dabbing at the corners of their eyes with a tissue. On the contrary, he doesn't think he's ever seen Harry cry, but her eyes look much wetter than usual when she hobbles towards him on the carpet. Faris swallows.

“Faris,” she starts. Her voice doesn't sound anything like it did in the hospital or on the other weekend, or even in that terrible interview. Still, it's enough to make Faris want to cry as well. “I hope you have a safe journey, and that you'll have a lovely time in Scotland… And that you make some new friends there, but also that you'll come visit us at BedMates again if you can.”

Faris immediately feels bad for making that earlier promise about visiting. “I'll send a postcard.”

Harry smiles, but her hands on the crutch handles shake. “Just don't forget about us, okay?”

“I won't.”

He doesn't know what else to say. When Harry leans in for her hug, he's slightly more hesitant that she could keel over before he wraps her up in both arms. Like her sibling, she's got a warmth in her body, much closer under the skin than the heat Josh carries with him. If Faris keeps thinking about Josh, he'll definitely lose composure. Instead, he focuses on Harry's silky hair against the side of his face, the mossy forest scent of her perfume, and the shake that creeps up her arms and into her back when she begins to cry. At the very least, she doesn't wipe her face on Faris' shirt, too.

“Goodbye, Faris,” Harry repeats.

With the candles still illuminating the room, it sounds more like an incantation, the magic spell of a witch or something equally unreal.

Faris looks at Harry's nose and cheeks, her tan skin and dimples. “Goodbye,” he repeats.

Goodbye, Rhys. Goodbye, Harry.

Finally, Josh stands up. The low light makes him look more like a paper cutout than a person, and his voice sounds papery as well.

“So, this is Goodbye, again?”

Faris doesn't have it in him to laugh at that. Neither does Josh.

“I guess.”

“Then… Goodbye, Faris,” Josh says.

“Goodbye,” Faris says to Josh's nose.

Goodbye, Josh.

Josh stretches out his balled hand, and Faris accepts. He bumps Josh's fist with his own for two seconds at most, just long enough he can feel their knuckles slot into each other.

“Goodbye,” he repeats to himself.

One more time, he looks at the three of them, and he pulls out his phone to check the time. He's still got time until he has to catch the bus, but he can't possibly stay any longer.

“I have to go now.”

After one more hug from each Webb, Faris pulls his boots back on and heads outside. The night has cooled down further, but not so cold to be unpleasant. He's got time, again, so he lingers outside the blue BedMates display window. The mannequins look back down at him, but with their lack of faces, Faris can't possibly tell whether they're judging him.

“Goodbye, BedMates,” he says to himself, and he places one hand on the brick.

Goodbye, BedMates. Goodbye, Faris.

–

            Faris takes the Tube to Victoria the next morning. Normally, he would get the 38 bus, but the Tube is quicker, and the amount it charges to his Oyster doesn't make a difference at this point. Over the weekend, he withdrew all the money he had left from his account, and on Monday morning, he made a visit to his landlord's office and paid the outstanding rent for September. 850 pounds in cash. All his leftover savings are bundled heavy in his wallet, and he can't even estimate how long they'll last him. Maybe he'll run away and buy a train ticket down to London after a few weeks when he's got time off, just for a few days so he won't lose his mind in the countryside.

            All things considered, Faris likes riding the Tube when it's not crowded. The train car is barren quiet, only a handful of commuters around at this hour, so he removes his earbuds and slouches forward onto the long handle of his suitcase. Everything about the Tube is extremely logical. The robotic female voice from the speaker announces every stop in advance and then, at the stop, the next three stations. Everything is very clearly labelled, too, so Faris can shut his brain off and run on autopilot. From Hackney Central it's three stops to Highbury & Islington, and from there it's six stops to Victoria, which makes for a total of nine. Only one off from ten, two fives, and just like that, it only almost makes sense.

            The walk to the coach station is short. Overnight, the sky broke open, and it still hasn't stopped; Faris could hear it drumming onto the roof when he was on the overground train, but it seems to have gotten worse in the meantime so the wheels of his case slither on the wet asphalt. By the time that he's made it into the hall with the departure screens, he's drenched.

            Tom is already waiting for him at the gate. They greet each other with low voices and a single nod, no handshakes or hugs needed. Tom's wearing his expensive black sunglasses again, a pea coat and loafers that look like they cost more than all items on Faris' body together. Even his suitcase looks expensive. In the reflection of the glass pane that separates the passengers from the buses, he looks like a male model. Meanwhile, Faris looks like a shaggy wet dog.

            “You prepared for the journey?” Tom asks.

            Faris only nods.

            Their bus will get to Glasgow at six PM, and then they've got fifteen minutes to walk to Queen Street station and catch the train to Oban. By the time they reach the coast, it'll be dark, so they'll spend the night with a friend of Tom's before they're taking the boat out to the enclave.

            “Cappuccino?” Tom holds a Starbucks paper cup out to him.

            “Cheers.”

            Faris would much rather have a fag, and he doesn't like milk in his coffee to begin with. Still, the cup warms his clammy fingers, and the lid gives him something to fidget with. The bus station is quiet at this time of day, half the seats around them empty, but Tom remains standing, and Faris doesn't dare to sit down, either.

            The minutes pass. Faris made a point of being there half an hour before departure, but by a quarter to eight, the bus is still nowhere in sight. They could've gotten the train instead, he considers that, but at least the ten-hour drive will give him the opportunity to sleep. He can't think of a single conversation topic to bring up to Tom and pass the time.

            Suddenly, someone taps him on the shoulder.

            “Faz?”

            Faris has never spun around so quickly in his life. Josh is standing right in front of him, already limp hair deflated further with the rain.

            “Hey,” he says, one hand raised in an awkward wave.

            Faris very quickly realises he should say something in return. “Hey. How did…”

            He originally wanted to ask how Josh knew where to find him, but cuts himself off as soon as he realises the answer is obvious.

            “You said your bus was going at eight yesterday,” Josh says back. He looks crumpled and sticky again, but this time it's definitely just the rain. “Wasn't difficult to figure out.”

            “I kind of thought so.” Faris lets out a nervous laugh, and surprisingly, it's not fake.

            “I just wanted to come and say sorry to you. For being such a twat the other night.”

            Josh digs his hands deeper into his pockets and lets his eyes flicker down to their shoes on the floor. Faris isn't sure whether Josh wants him to respond or not.

            “I had a really hard time accepting that you were going away, obviously, so I acted like a dick, and… I guess I also wanted to say goodbye properly.”

            Josh makes eye contact with him again, real eye contact. He pouts.

            Faris wants to say… He doesn't know what he wants to say. Instead, what comes out is, “No, that's okay,” and he's not sure if it is. “I understand,” he says next, and he does, perfectly.

            Josh exhales heavily through his nose. Faris is suddenly aware of the fact that Tom is hovering at the fringe of their conversation, and he fidgets with his cup again.

            “Tom, this is Josh. He's my boyfriend.” He doesn't expect that word to slip out so easily again. “Josh, Tom.”

            Tom stretches out a hand, and Josh accepts to squeeze it. Once again, it's strangely formal.

            “I'll just borrow Faris from you for a second.”

            “Sure thing,” Tom says. Even with the sunglasses on, his face makes it obvious that Josh being here at all has taken him aback, and even more so when Faris realises he never told Tom about Josh to begin with.

            Faris feels obligated to thank him still. “Cheers.”

            “Posh twat,” Josh whispers under his breath as he walks Faris a few paces up the aisle.

            Faris merely shrugs in return.

            When they stop at the other side of their gate, far enough so Tom won't hear them, neither of them knows what to say once again.

            “So… Goodbye?” Faris asks after it's been quiet for a few seconds too long. Now, he's the one looking down at his boots across from Josh's ratty Converses.

            “Yeah. Goodbye.”

            Faris snaps his head back up to look at Josh properly. He's never seen his eyes look so intensely green before, the colour of the deepest inside of a forest. When Josh reaches out his arms, it's a proper hug, a squeeze that's deep, but not too tight. Faris shuts his eyes for a second to focus on the feeling of Josh's body next to his.

            “I still wish you didn't have to go,” Josh whispers up towards his ear just when Faris breaks away. “Or I could come with you…”

            Faris shakes his head. “You couldn't… I couldn't turn you.” He doesn't want to let go just yet, so his hands find Josh's and squeeze them, too. “I'd have to support you, and I can't even support myself, that's why Tom's…”

            Josh shuts him up with a single tut. “I could never be a Vampire,” he says. With a twinkle in his eye that could be amusement or a stray tear, he adds, “I'm afraid of blood. Remember?”

            Faris finds himself smiling against his will. “Right,” he says.

            “I just want that one day we can live together, maybe even on a farm in Scotland. A small one that's got sheep and pigs and chickens. Just our own little island somewhere far away from everything.”

            “You sound like you've put real thought into that.” Faris only says it to hide that he would actually like that a lot.

            “I have.” Josh gives him another sparkly-eyed smile, but this time, the gleam is almost certainly his tears. “I just want that we can both be happy. Together.”

            Faris presses his tongue into the roof of his mouth. His vision is still clear, but he wouldn't be surprised if the tears started leaking out soon.

            “It's not forever,” he says, and just as soon, he realises how wrong that came out. “Me going to Scotland. Hopefully.” This time, he really wants to believe that it's true. His thumbs draw circles on the backs of Josh's hands. “But I want that, too. I really want to.”

            Josh nods. He's not crying yet, but he's unquestionably close. Over his shoulder, Faris watches a National Express coach with a sign reading _Glasgow_ pull in.

            “My bus is here,” he whispers.

            “Oh. Okay.”

            Faris shakes his head. “Don't have to leave right away. Just soon.”

            Again, Josh only nods. He moves in for a second hug, and again, Faris presses him close the same way Josh is holding him near. This time, he can very clearly feel Josh's heartbeat in sync with his own. The voice on the intercom reads out an announcement, and he knows exactly it's for his coach. Just to be sure he won't forget, he takes one last deep whiff of Josh's smell, Lynx and conditioner, and Josh. Just Josh.

            “Goodbye,” Josh whispers up at him when they're facing each other once more.

            Faris would kiss him goodbye properly if they weren't in public, if there were less people. So, he only presses his lips to Josh's forehead and his wet fringe for a second. “Goodbye.”

            “It's not forever,” Josh insists.

            Faris believes him without hesitation.

            The voice on the speaker repeats that the service to Glasgow is now boarding.

            “Happy together,” he says back. “Someday.”

_fin_


End file.
